


gimme all your kisses, baby, ‘cause this is bliss

by nastea, obsceme



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Choking, Come Eating, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Smut, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastea/pseuds/nastea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsceme/pseuds/obsceme
Summary: Festival season is all about doing drugs and wearing skimpy clothes and fooling around in tents.Steve just didn't realize he'd be getting the full experience when he agreed to attend Coachella withBilly fucking Hargrove.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 108
Kudos: 705





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We’d like to extend a special thank you to the incredibly talented [wrecked-fuse](https://wrecked-fuse.tumblr.com/post/190239903991/harringrove-for-australia-piece-for-tea-otter-and) for bringing a scene from this fic to life for Harringrove for Australia!  
> 

It’s early. 

Too early, Steve thinks, to be conscious, because the sun is only now beginning to rise and he barely possesses the motor function needed to bring his coffee to his lips every few seconds. It’s his own fault for signing up for an elective on a Monday morning, and for drinking on a Sunday evening. But mistakes were made. Now Steve’s penance is a mild hangover and a desperate itch for sleep as he double fists a cigarette and a mug of instant coffee that tastes a lot like dirt.

“Hey. You look like shit.”

Steve isn’t surprised — by the statement or by who’s saying it. He looks up to see Billy Hargrove standing a few feet away, a gym bag slung over one shoulder. His hair is up in a messy bun like he just rolled out of bed, but he looks awake. Like, _annoyingly_ awake. Steve doesn’t understand how he can be such a morning person, or why he always has to rub it in.

“I _feel_ like shit,” Steve mutters, squinting up at Billy. It comes off as more of a grimace, his face screwing up from the glare of the sunlight that frames Billy’s head like a halo.

Billy plops down on the bench next to him, looking over at him expectantly. Steve heaves a sigh, pulling his cigarette pack from the front pocket of his flannel and passing it over. 

“Thanks,” Billy acknowledges, tapping out a cigarette from the pack and tossing it back at Steve before lighting up. “That shit’s not going to do anything for your hangover, you know. You need something greasy, like a big fat burger from Fran’s.”

Steve’s face screws up in disgust. The mere thought of food — especially the garbage that gets whipped up at Fran’s diner — makes his stomach turn. “Must you always say things?”

The laugh Steve gets in response is more of a snort. He doesn’t bother dignifying it with a response of his own, choosing instead to take a long drag from his smoke, followed by an even longer sip of his coffee. Billy is always insufferable. Insufferably sarcastic, insufferably smart, insufferably chipper on a too-bright Monday morning. Insufferably _cute_ when he really has no right to be. 

“I think speaking words is just, you know. A normal human function for most, wouldn’t you say?” Billy asks with a cocked eyebrow. He takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing out the smoke into the warm morning air.

How Steve manages to find Billy Hargrove cute is beyond him. But the heart and loins want what they want, and Billy looks unfairly good in that sleeveless white top, showing off thick biceps and a perfectly golden tan.

Steve grunts in response. It takes him another swig of coffee before he can get any words out.

"Yeah, well, I'm not human before nine, so." 

Billy lets out another snort. It's followed by a beat of silence as they both indulge their respective vices. Billy leans back, knees spread obnoxiously wide, elbows braced against the back of the bench, and puffs out clouds of smoke. Steve pretends like he doesn't notice that their knees are touching.

It's a few moments of this before Billy speaks up again.

"So, you going to Coachella this year?" He sounds bored when he asks it, like he's making small talk for the sake of filling the silence. 

Steve doesn’t speak for a long moment, considering his options. He could be honest, say he’s never been to a music festival and has never even considered making plans to attend one. Or, he could say that he has. Get some experience points by pretending. And, like, that’s not a lie, necessarily. He _could_ be considering going. It’s not like Billy would ever need to know that he’s a festival virgin. What is he, some kind of mind reader? 

Billy may be a veteran festival attendee, or so he’s heard, but Steve is a veteran in faking it ‘til he makes it. 

So. He lies. Straight through his teeth as he shrugs and says: “I’ve been thinking about it. Dunno what my plans are, yet. Not committing if there’s something better to do, you know?”

“The fuck could you possibly have going on that’s better than Coachella? It’s _Coachella,”_ Billy scoffs, taking one last drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out with the heel of his shoe. “Saved up for my tickets all year. I guess you don’t have that problem, though. Daddy’s credit card got you out of living in a sweaty shoebox with three other people, after all.”

Steve often forgets that Billy, despite the effortless way he dresses and the immaculate man-buns and glowing complexion, is here on scholarship. A full ride, thanks to that big brain of his. How Steve forgets is beyond him, given how often Billy throws Steve’s financial status in his face.

“Daddy’s credit card can buy a lot of things,” Steve says with an unimpressed sniff, stomping out his own cigarette. He does his best to put up a front, to act like Billy’s words roll right off his back. “Coachella’s just another bullet on the list. But I guess _you_ don’t have that problem.”

Billy gives him a smile that’s all teeth. “Got a bit of fire in you today, Harrington. That the hangover talking, or just your shit attitude?”

“Maybe it’s a little bit of both, dickhead.”

Steve gathers his belongings, collecting their cigarette butts and tossing them into the garbage can before making his way to class. He hears Billy following behind him, walking at an unhurried pace, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he’s too cool to get to class on time.

In all honesty, it really gets under Steve’s skin — the way Billy can be so effortlessly cool. Steve may have been indoctrinated into the popular crowd at a young age due to his big, empty house and practically unlimited financial resources, but he’s still always had to _try_ to hang onto his elevated status. In the time that Steve has known him, Billy has never seemed to have that problem.

And Steve has known Billy for quite a while now, so.

They’re at about that point in their informal walk together across campus that their paths diverge; Billy will veer off for the liberal arts building for some kind of English lit class, or whatever the hell he’s taking on a Monday morning. Steve, meanwhile, will continue on his way to a history elective that he seriously regrets signing up for. 

It’s just before they part ways that Billy suddenly speaks up again.

“Hey, if you decide not to be a lame-ass, we’ve still got an extra space at our campsite,” he says. “You can have it. For a price.”

“Like, a cash price?” Steve asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Billy cocks his head to the side, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He just shrugs, cool as a cucumber. And then says: “Guess you’ll just have to see when you get there. That is, if you make the right decision and show up.”

“I— don’t even know what to say to that,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head. “Whatever. I have to get to class.”

“Sure. Better not be late, pretty boy. I don’t think your GPA can handle another C.”

Steve just flips him off before hustling in the direction of the history building, his lips tugged into a displeased frown. Billy is constantly surprising him, somehow. The only thing that remains constant is how big of an ass he is. He’s always pushing Steve’s buttons, always doing his absolute best to rile him up. 

That alone has Steve considering not wasting hundreds of dollars on a ticket to a stupid — and definitely overrated — music festival. But he’d be lying if he said he’s not at least a little bit curious about what Billy has in mind. In regards to his supposed _price,_ at least. 

He’d also be lying if he said he didn’t spend the entirety of his history class scrolling through _Ticketmaster,_ sorting through the wide variety of Coachella ticket options. Probably not his best move, considering he has an exam coming up in less than a week, but. Well. He’s never been one to make the best decisions. 

The fact that Steve is considering going to this stupid festival at all, simply because Billy fucking Hargrove constantly piques his interest when he has no business doing so, is a testament to that.

And honestly, who invites someone somewhere for a _price?_ It’s kind of a dick move. Like, could Billy not just say, _‘hey Harrington, I’ve got a space left at my Coachella campsite, it’s yours if you want it’?_ Is that not what normal people do when they want to hang out with someone? 

If Steve is being honest, though, Billy has never been one for normal social etiquette. It’s a wonder they ever managed to become friends at all. Or whatever one would call their tumultuous relationship. But still. It’d be nice if, for once, Billy could just… talk to Steve like a normal person. Have a normal conversation between two friends. Extend a normal, friendly invitation to hang out somewhere. 

But Steve has to be realistic. And that dream? That dream, where Billy is just a nice, normal guy who doesn’t bust Steve’s balls every time they cross paths, is _highly_ unrealistic. 

It’s a dream that Steve tosses right out the window as he sighs and sinks lower into his seat, adding a stupid Coachella ticket to his cart and hitting ‘purchase’ before he can think twice about it.

He figures he'll have time to regret it later.

\--

As it turned out, buying festival tickets right before exams meant that Steve didn’t actually have time to think about — much less _regret —_ his decision. He sent Billy a text at some point, telling him to hold onto that extra space after all, but then finals hit and thoughts of Coachella and Billy Hargrove were promptly relegated to the back of his mind.

By the time mid-April rolls around, Steve realizes that he has just three days to figure out what the hell his plans are. He's got a place to crash, apparently, because Billy hasn't told him otherwise — even if he still hasn't made it clear how Steve is supposed to compensate him. Everything else ends up being pretty last-minute, from the clothes Steve packs and borrows (it turns out there's some kind of unspoken dress code for these kinds of festivals), to who he's sharing a ride with (because of course overnight parking is all sold out).

It culminates in Steve spending the drive through Palm Springs sandwiched between two girls he only vaguely knows through friends-of-friends. He spends the ride wondering, belatedly, why he thought it was a good idea to waste a perfectly good weekend in the Colorado Desert with Billy Hargrove and his entourage of dickheads.

But he's kind of stuck now, so Steve figures he might as well try to squeeze whatever fun he can get out of this overpriced weekend.

It’s why he’s seriously considering the innocuous-looking plastic water bottle that Billy shoves into his hand not five minutes after they run into each other at the campsite.

"It's molly water," Billy says, like that's supposed to mean anything to Steve. "You ever rolled before?"

And Steve's smart enough to add two and two together: he knows this is some kind of drug thing. Mostly because Billy and his group of friends party hard, but also because he knows that music festivals and drugs go together like peanut butter and jelly.

“Um,” Steve starts. He stalls a bit, warily eyeing the water bottle he’s got clutched in his hand. “I— totally. Yeah, lots of times. The fuck do I look like?”

Billy arches a brow, looking thoroughly unconvinced. But he doesn’t question it, instead giving an unimpressed shrug and motioning for Steve to take a drink.

“Bottoms up then, bitch.”

Steve’s lip curls, and he gives the cap a rough twist before bringing the bottle to his mouth. It isn’t until it’s resting at his lips that he hesitates. Because, no, he absolutely has not _‘rolled’_ — or whatever the fuck Billy had called it — before. The hardest drug he’s ever done was some cocaine at one of his friend’s house parties back in high school. Beyond that? He’s a virgin when it comes to just about everything drug-related. 

But Steve has already gotten himself into this mess, and besides, there’s no going back now. He knocks back some of the water, cringing at the bitter taste that floods his mouth. He coughs a bit, shoving the water bottle back into Billy’s waiting hands after taking a long swig.

“Thought you’d done this before, Harrington?” Billy taunts, putting the bottle to his lips and taking a slow sip. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

“Do you ever shut up? I just, you know. Forgot how bad that shit tastes. It’s been a while,” Steve mutters. 

He hopes his lie is convincing enough. Billy doesn’t question it, so Steve figures it must be. Or maybe Billy just doesn’t give a fuck. Either way, he drops it, turning on his heel to answer one of his douchebag friends who’s calling his name.

Steve takes the moment alone to look around, grimacing just a little at the sight of so many sweaty bodies milling about. It’s fucking loud as hell, too, and the air feels almost stagnant. He wonders, fleetingly, if it’ll freak him out a little when the high of whatever Billy had given him sets in. 

He realizes, rather abruptly, that he has no idea how long it’ll take for the drugs to kick in. Even takes his phone out to google it, his stomach doing a nervous flip-flop when he reads that he has about thirty to forty minutes before he starts feeling the effects of the molly. Steve tries to calm the racing of his heart, tries to remind himself that despite the fact that Billy can be the world’s biggest douchebag, he won’t just abandon Steve if he starts to panic. 

The thought settles the racing of his mind, to a degree. He made good time calming himself down, too, because it isn’t even a minute later that Billy is calling his name, waving him over to where he’s standing with a few friends Steve doesn’t recognize.

“We’re gonna go see Glass Animals first,” Billy informs him as he puffs on a cigarette, one hand stuffed casually into the pocket of his shorts. “Sound good?”

Steve thinks he’s heard maybe one Glass Animals song before, but he nods anyway. Tries to just go with the flow and not rekindle his slight panic. “Sure. Lead the way.”

The walk across the festival grounds is a solid fifteen minutes of weaving through sweaty bodies and trying not to bump into people stopping for photographs. Steve has been to a couple of outdoor concerts before, so the scene isn't that different than what he's used to. It’s just — _more._ More people. More stages. More dressing up, like there's some kind of unspoken competition over who can wear the most eye-catching outfit. 

Steve isn't sure what the dress code is, exactly, but shirts and pants seem to be optional. And there are a _lot_ of really attractive people here, even by Californian standards. Which means that Steve has a lot to look at, so much so that he doesn't mind that no one in Billy's group is making small-talk with him as they head toward the stage. 

"You alright there, pretty boy?" Billy's voice cuts across Steve's distracted thoughts like a jackknife. He catches himself gawking at a guy dressed in a lime green speedo, and looks back in time to see that Billy is staring at him with one of those stupid, shit-eating grins of his.

"Christ, don't tell me you're already high."

Steve feels the flush spread down his face to his neck, dipping below the collar of his shirt. He’d chosen to don a fucking tie-dyed crop top with a pair of barely-there shorts, so he’s pretty sure everyone can see it spread all the way down to his stomach. 

He does feel a little — what’s the word? Off balance? His heart rate is kicking up, and his palms are starting to sweat. It’s nothing overwhelming yet, but he does notice that lights are a bit brighter. Sounds are a bit louder. It’s a lot of input already, and he’s only just beginning to come up.

“Shut up,” Steve mumbles, his cheeks still pink. “I told you it’s been a while.”

Billy leans closer, enough so that Steve can feel the soft puff of his breath across his skin, and says: “Don’t worry, pretty boy. We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Steve is pretty sure it’s meant as a taunt, but it still eases some of the anxiety coiling in his gut. He takes a steadying breath, trying not to read into that _‘we won’t let anything bad happen to you’._ Tries not to hear it as more of an _‘ **I**_ _won’t let anything bad happen to you’._

That’s dangerous territory, and Steve knows it. So he focuses instead on the music, on the way it’s starting to feel like it’s pulsing in his veins. He recognizes only one song from Glass Animals, but he finds that he enjoys the unfamiliar ones as well. The beat is nice, and the lyrics feel deeper than he can comprehend right now, like they’ve been written in a language he’s never heard before. But it’s— it’s _nice._ It’s the only word Steve can think of to describe it, because his head is feeling a little hazy.

The high creeps up on him at first, slow and sneaky. But when it fully sets in, it hits him like a fucking truck. One minute he’s swaying along to the beat, sipping some non-drug infused water while he watches the band onstage with starry eyes. The next, everything feels like it’s just _too much._

There’s too much sound and light and movement. There are too many voices. The mass amount of input feels like sensory overload. Flashes of hot and cold run through him interchangeably, like his body is finding it difficult to equilibrate his temperature. Steve feels the panic start to rise again, wondering for a moment if he’s going to be stuck like this forever. His breath comes out in short pants, his teeth grinding until his jaw aches. 

It isn’t until he catches Billy’s eyes that he recalls his previous statement — _‘we won’t let anything bad happen to you’._ As calming as that had been, right now it’s not enough. 

For a moment, Billy stares back at him like he’s confused. Then he has this sort of _look,_ like he gets it. Like he knows something that Steve doesn’t.

“Hey, you good?” Billy asks, after shouldering through the throng of people separating their bodies. He lingers by Steve’s side, close enough that their hands almost brush.

Steve nods, his movements sharp and jerky, but he doesn’t feel like he has the ability to answer at the moment. His jaw feels like it’s locked tight, almost like he’ll have to pry it open with pliers if he ever hopes to talk again.

“Here, chew this.” Billy holds out a stick of gum. Steve doesn’t make any move to open his mouth, so Billy just sighs. He takes hold of Steve’s jaw and gently separates his lips with his thumb, then slips the gum inside. 

The feeling of Billy’s hands on his skin sends sparks shooting down Steve’s spine. Even in his current state, Steve can recognize that. He can recognize just how electrifying Billy’s touch can be. The sensation helps him regain some motor control, and he starts to chew. It helps relieve a decent bit of the discomfort in his jaw, and he gives Billy a grateful smile.

“Thanks,” he says, but his voice sounds stilted even to his own ears.

“You’re gonna be alright, you know. You’re just peaking. First time can be kind of intense,” Billy comments, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I would’ve warned you, if you’d just told me the truth.”

“I — no. I didn’t _lie,”_ Steve says, affronted. “It’s just—”

“Been a while?” Billy finishes, both eyebrows raised. “Sure. Whatever you say. Point is, you’ll start feeling good soon. Just ride the wave.”

Steve wants to make a snippy comment back, but he bites his tongue. Just nods again, trying to focus on the music instead of the up and down roller coaster of feeling rolling through him. Much to his surprise, Billy stays by his side, rocking along to the beat with an easygoing smile. He looks incredibly in his element, and Steve has to admit, it’s a good look on him.

Not only that, but Billy is also incredibly _right._ The moments pass, stretching on longer and longer, until the panic resting on the tip of Steve’s tongue eases away little by little. Eventually, there’s nothing left but a feeling that Steve can only classify as indescribable.

The music spilling from the stage feels like it’s pulsing through him, an electrifying current that has a grin spreading across Steve’s lips, one that nearly splits his face in half. There are strobing lights everywhere, and right now they look almost ethereal. Steve knows his eyes are wide with awe, but he can’t help it. 

“Shit, Harrington,” Billy says with a bark of a laugh the next time he looks over. “You should see your fucking pupils right now. Feeling better?”

Steve just grins at him, wide-eyed and feeling like he’s on top of the world. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good in his entire life. “I feel— It’s good. Better than good. _Good_ good. Does that make sense? I don’t think it does.”

“Glad you’ve decided to stop being a pussy and start enjoying yourself,” Billy tells him, but his tone is light and teasing. 

Steve thinks he should still be annoyed by it, but he finds that he just doesn’t have it in him. Especially not when Billy, seemingly without thinking, reaches up to tuck a lock of Steve’s hair behind his ear. The gasp that escapes Steve’s lips is completely involuntary, but Billy doesn’t seem to hear it. He just turns back to the stage, leaving Steve to simmer in the sensation of Billy’s fingertips against his skin.

If Billy’s touch felt like sparks before, it feels like fucking fireworks now. His skin tingles from where Billy’s fingertips had just barely grazed it, and Steve feels like a livewire. Like he’s being set alight from the inside out.

He can't stop fixating on the phantom feeling of Billy's fingers on his lips, is the thing. It pulls at his thoughts, incessant like an itch, and Steve wonders how crazy he'd sound if he asked Billy to do it again just to see if it still feels as good as the first time. Just to see what _else_ might feel nice.

Steve must have zoned out to the music for a while, because when he finally builds up the nerve to look at Billy again, to maybe actually voice the question that's stuck behind his teeth, Billy isn't alone. He has a scantily-clad girl on his shoulders — the brunette that Steve shared a ride with whose name now escapes him — and he's laughing about something as she reaches down to pass him an e-cig. 

Steve’s not sure what it is about the sight of them that leaves him a little breathless. He gets lost staring at those toned thighs clenching around Billy's shoulders, at the sheen of sweat across Billy's sun-kissed chest, at the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners and the glimmer of blue visible through those thick, dark lashes, and— Alright, it's mostly Billy that Steve is staring at. Possibly _exclusively_ Billy. And that should annoy or alarm him, but it's hard to get upset about it when everything looks so warm and golden and _perfect._

Especially Billy.

"You gonna give me a turn?" Steve asks. He's not sure _why_ he asks it — the words just tumble out, unbidden. But he doesn't feel awkward about it, doesn't even think to. Instead he’s grinning, watching as Billy puffs a cloud of pale smoke his way. Through the haze, Steve notices that Billy's pupils are blown wide.

He flashes Steve a smile — toothy, wicked, like even when he's high and giddy Billy is still a little mean — and takes another hit of the cigarette before pointedly holding it out.

"Man, you're pretty fucked up, huh?"

Steve takes the e-cig from Billy’s outstretched hand, flashing him his own toothy grin. Only his is softer around the edges, sweeter. “Wasn’t that the goal?”

“That it was, pretty boy,” Billy agrees with a laugh.

When Steve puts the e-cig up to his lips, he takes a long pull. At first, the sensation of strawberry-flavored smoke filling his lungs is relatively the same as it is when he’s not rolling. But after a moment, Steve can’t help noticing how much smoother the smoke feels going down. He takes another pull, and another. He’s like a fiend, chasing any sensation he can get his hands on. Or mouth, rather. Whatever.

It isn’t until the last pull that he gets distracted by Billy’s eyes. They’re just— They’re so big and blue and bright. Steve doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but not even a beat passes before he’s leaning over. Confident in a way he rarely feels around Billy, Steve cups Billy’s jaw in his hand and presses their lips together, just so. Billy’s part instinctively, and Steve exhales the smoke into his mouth as Billy greedily inhales the offering. 

Steve pulls back, his lips burning pleasantly from the feeling of Billy’s mouth against his. The feeling consumes him; he wants to roll himself in it. He wonders how good that mouth would feel on other parts of his body. On _better_ parts. But something deep within the recesses of his mind screams at him, asking him just what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. 

But it’s far too easy to shut that particular voice out while he’s this high, his eyes still locked with Billy’s. He’s lost in those eyes, high as a kite and drowning in them. In all honesty, it feels really fucking good to lose himself like this. To _ride the wave,_ as Billy suggested.

The girl on Billy’s shoulders huffs out a sigh, realizing she’s apparently not going to be getting any further attention from him. She pats Billy’s shoulder, signaling for him to let her down. He does so carefully, crouching down to let her off, though his eyes never leave Steve’s. The girl takes the e-cig from Steve’s hand without a word, shoving through the crowd to find her other friends.

Billy moves to stand, but Steve’s hand shoots out, acting of its own volition. It lands on Billy’s bicep, and Billy pauses, still kneeling on the ground. The skin-to-skin contact almost burns, but in the best way.

“I thought I asked you to give me a turn?”

For a fleeting moment, Billy doesn’t quite look like he understands. But Steve is still blinking down at him, his smile dopey and wide and the look he’s giving him is nothing short of expectant. Billy puts two and two together, eventually, and smirks like the cat who got the cream. 

“Well, come on then.” Billy motions for him to climb on with a pointed jerk of his chin.

The thing is, Steve never could have anticipated how good this would feel. The moment he slings his legs over Billy’s shoulders, a small fire begins to burn in his belly. Billy hooks his arms around Steve’s calves and rights himself, turning back toward the stage. He grabs what looks to be a blunt out of the pocket of that stupid Hawaiian shirt that he somehow manages to both pull off and look ridiculously _good_ in. 

Billy lights up, seemingly distracted, and Steve loses himself in the way his skin prickles with pleasant little shivers. His shorts, as small as they had been when he first put them on, now feel uncomfortably smaller. 

Steve can feel Billy’s hands resting against his legs, keeping him steady. He can feel the way the muscles of his thighs flex every time they brush against the soft skin of Billy’s neck, and the way Billy’s hair ghosts across the skin of his abdomen when he bobs his head to the music. Every point of contact, no matter how feather-light, sends goosebumps erupting across his skin. It’s all just _so much_ and, honestly, what happens next should’ve been a little more than anticipated. 

But popping a drug-induced boner while sitting atop a friend’s shoulders really didn’t seem like it’d be in the cards for Steve tonight. So sue him for not having a plan for this particular situation.

Steve tries to think of sad things, like dead babies or abandoned puppies or cancer. He tries to will his hard-on to go down before Billy notices. Though, judging by the way Billy’s fingers suddenly tighten, digging into his thighs, Steve is pretty sure he already has.

“Yo, Billy! We’re dipping out, gonna go see Joywave,” a voice calls, and Steve looks to see one of Billy’s (still nameless) friends standing a few feet away. “You coming?”

“Yeah, gimme a second. I’ll be right there.”

Billy doesn’t say a word to Steve, just crouches down. Steve knows better than to stay put, even if he feels like he’s frozen in place. He climbs off hastily, knowing that, as embarrassed as he feels at the moment, he should definitely be beyond humiliated. Much more so than he is right now. He blames it on the molly, on the way it’s all but torn down each and every last one of his inhibitions.

Steve catches Billy’s eyes once they’re both upright, and the look swimming in them is almost unreadable. Billy doesn’t look _mad,_ necessarily. Nor does he look repulsed or uncomfortable or like he’s regretting ever inviting Steve in the first place. It’s more like curiosity, mixed with something else that Steve doesn’t yet have a name for.

Considering Steve just kissed him and had his half-chub pressed to the back of Billy's head for an entire two songs, it probably has to mean _something._

He's just not entirely sure _what_ it means, exactly. And Steve doesn't get the chance to ask, because Billy is suddenly pressing a hand to the small of his back and pushing him forward through the crowd.

It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but every skin-on-skin touch lights up Steve's nerves with heat and pleasure. He tries not to groan at the sensation, focusing instead on chewing his gum more furiously, like maybe that will take his mind off the goosebumps spreading across his back, and the tightness in the seat of his pants.

"You doing okay? You're rolling pretty hard right now," Billy asks him. It comes off casually enough, but Steve swears he can hear a thread of tension in Billy's voice. He swears he can feel him staring, too, throwing Steve constant, furtive side glances as they navigate away from the stage and through the sweaty press of bodies.

The occasional brush of strangers as they pass by doesn't feel anywhere near as intoxicating as Billy's hand. Steve kind of wants to lean into the contact a little more. He kind of wants to steal that blunt away from Billy, too. Maybe take another hit. Maybe get his mouth on Billy's again and share another lungful of smoke.

He gets so distracted watching it curl past Billy's lips and make strange, twisting shapes in the air, he forgets that Billy has asked him a question. Steve’s thoughts have turned to static, and the temptation to lean closer and inhale that thin plume of smoke right from the corner of Billy's mouth is too much. 

Unfortunately — or perhaps thankfully — Steve only gets as far as leaning in before Billy plucks the blunt from between his teeth and tilts his head back to blow the rest of the smoke above their heads. When he glances back down at Steve, it's with a cocked eyebrow and that same curious look as before.

"Earth to Harrington. You still with us?”

“What?” Steve blinks, startled by the sound of Billy’s voice. Oh, right. He’d been asked a question, and is being less than patiently waited on for an answer. “Oh, um. I’m— I feel good. Better than earlier.”

“So, you finally gonna admit you’ve never done this before?” Billy asks after a beat. He passes Steve the blunt as they walk, his other hand still pressed to Steve’s lower back like it’s fastened there. 

Steve accepts the weed gratefully, taking a decent hit before passing it back. He waits until he’s fully exhaled before he speaks, heading off his words with a shrug. “Depends. What will I get out of it if I do?”

“An unburdened soul?”

The laugh that escapes Steve’s lips is unexpected, as is Billy’s choice of words. “I think I might need a bit more of an incentive than that.”

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see what else I can come up with, then,” Billy answers, just as they’re approaching his friends.

“First I have to wait and see what my price is for all of this, and now I have to wait to see what my incentive is to play this impromptu game of truth or dare?”

Billy’s smile confuses the ever-living fuck out of Steve, because it almost looks predatory. 

“All in due time, Stevie,” is all he says. Not even ten seconds pass before the music starts, stealing away any chance Steve has to think of a response.

The evening hours rapidly shift to late night as they bounce from show to show. Steve is high out of his mind and hyper aware of how Billy never leaves his side from there on out. Hyper aware of every accidental — or purposeful, on Steve’s part — touch, each one sending sparks skittering across his skin. 

It’s approaching midnight and they’re watching Flume perform, when Billy passes Steve the bottle holding their precious molly water. There’s enough left for a quick chug, though Steve doesn’t see why he needs it. He hasn’t come down all that much, though he has evened out a bit.

“Redose,” Billy explains, clearly noticing Steve’s confused expression. “It’ll keep you from coming down too soon.”

Steve hesitates for only half a second, then brings the bottle to his lips and drains the rest of its contents. He notices the way Billy glances between him and the show, his eyes lingering on the curve of his throat as he tips his head back to catch the remnants of the water.

Billy takes the bottle a moment later, disappearing into the crowd to, presumably, locate one of the many garbage cans scattered about the festival grounds. He reappears after a beat, pushing through a couple making out next to Steve without sparing them a glance. They give him a dirty look before stumbling off into the mass of sweaty bodies surrounding them.

The music isn’t Steve’s favorite, too rave-ish for his taste. But it’s not unpleasant, so he bobs his head to the beat as the minutes tick by. It’s not long before that combination of hot and cold starts rolling through him again in waves, though it’s very subdued compared to how it felt earlier. Almost pleasant, even. 

He glances over at Billy, startled to find him staring right back. Unexpected, given that Steve had heard him scream-singing along to the music with his other friends mere moments ago. 

“What?” Steve asks, a little breathless at being the center of Billy’s attention.

Billy glances down, and Steve follows his gaze. It’s directed at his thighs — specifically, the gold thigh chains Steve had decided to throw on at the last second while getting ready this morning. One of them is sitting higher than the other, probably having gotten rucked up from all the moving around he’s been doing. Billy steps into his space, meeting his eyes.

“Your chains are uneven,” he says, his voice pitched low. Then, he’s looping his fingers around the gold chain, tugging it down until it’s even with the other, and making direct eye contact with Steve all the while.

Steve is pretty sure he blacks out for a second. The peak of the redose is still rolling through him, and Billy’s fingers dragging along the hypersensitive skin of his thighs feels like fire. Billy smooths the chain out before stepping back, his eyes dark.

The flush that has made a near-permanent home on Steve’s cheeks spreads again, and Billy tracks it with his eyes. It’s more than Steve can wrap his mind around right now, though his instincts are screaming for him to follow along. To join in on whatever game Billy is playing.

“So, last show of the night,” Steve finds himself saying, trying to diffuse this sudden, all-consuming tension brewing between them. “Are you planning on telling me who I’m bunking with, or do I have to wait to find that out, too?”

“Nah, that one’s easy,” Billy tells him, giving him a cool, even look. “You’re bunking with me.”

He gives Steve another look, one that comes off as more of a challenge, before he spins on his heels without a warning, heading off into the crowd so quickly that Steve almost loses him. 

It takes Steve’s brain a moment to communicate with his feet and get them moving, watching Billy speed-walk away from him for far too long before his body finally gets the memo. Then, Steve is stumbling after him with a half-hearted shout of his name.

Billy doesn’t slow down; he just keeps walking like he’s on some sort of mission, shouldering through the crowds so expertly that Steve nearly loses sight of him twice. It’s a good thing he doesn’t, though, because he isn’t sure he knows the way back to their campsite now that the sun has set and his head is buzzing from the high.

By the time the sea of festival-goers thins out and they step into the maze of mismatched tents and parked cars, Steve manages to catch up to Billy. He falls into stride beside him with a winded huff, and sees that Billy is throwing him a side-long glance and a sly smirk. It should probably annoy him, but Steve can't seem to get past his oddly giddy mood. And there's something about the way Billy is looking at him, the way he's running his tongue along his lips. It's just so— _hungry._

Steve doesn't think Billy has ever looked at him like that before tonight. Or maybe he's never noticed until now.

"See something you like?" Billy asks, sounding so stupidly smug that Steve knows he should be mad. But he's not, because the purr of Billy's voice rings pleasantly in his ears and stokes the heat that’s been steadily building in the pit of his stomach all evening. 

It's a miracle he manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

 _"You're_ the one staring," Steve tells him. It lacks any real bite. He’s too distracted by Billy’s mouth, all pretty and pink where it parts around the tip of his blunt. His eyes stay focused on Steve as he takes a long pull, like he doesn’t care how blatant he’s being. Like he doesn’t care that he’s just proving Steve’s point.

“So?” Billy blows a puff of smoke his way and then leans casually up against the side of a car. It takes Steve a second to realize that it’s Billy’s Camaro, that they’re outside one of the two cramped tents that will be their shared sleeping space tonight.

The thought sends a thrill racing down his spine. So does the look Billy’s giving him — his eyes are half-lidded eyes, his smirk is lopsided, and the blue of his irises is swallowed up by black. He looks expectant when he says: “You gonna do something about it, pretty boy?”

Steve steps into Billy’s space, their eyes still locked as he steals the blunt dangling from Billy’s fingers. He makes a show of taking a long hit, lips wrapped around the tip of the blunt in the most obscene fashion that he can muster. 

Thing is, Billy isn’t the only one who knows when he looks good. Steve may not put on as much of a show, but he knows what he’s doing and how good he looks doing it.

Billy tracks every movement with those hungry eyes of his, tongue darting out to wet his lips. It lingers there for a moment, and Steve can’t stop staring at that dizzying pink-on-pink display. He takes another hit from the blunt, this time holding the smoke in. When lifts an eyebrow, Billy doesn’t seem to need further instruction. His lips part, and Steve takes the invitation to close the remaining distance and slot their mouths together. 

Frankly, Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the feeling of this sort of give and take. The way he offers up the smoke and Billy just sucks it all down greedily with their lips cushioned together, warm and electric. Maybe it’s just the molly talking, but there’s no feeling that Steve has ever experienced that he can compare it to. 

Just when their shotgunning starts to transform into an honest-to-god kiss, Steve pulls back with a cheeky smile. He places the blunt back between Billy’s fingers before backing up a few paces, drawing closer and closer to the tent. Billy doesn’t follow, despite that he’s still watching Steve’s every movement.

“Well? You coming or what?” Steve questions, fumbling around for the zipper of the tent flap without turning around. 

“For?” Billy fires back. His voice is rough and low, the sound of it sending all the blood in Steve’s body directly south. Like it hadn’t been going there already.

Steve backs into the tent, pausing just before he’s completely shrouded in darkness. He cocks his head to the side, swiping his tongue along the curve of his top lip, slow and deliberate.

“And here I thought you wanted me to do something about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is gonna be purely smut, so, uh. We'll update soon. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like 11k of smut, so, uh. Boner apple tits!

_“And here I thought you wanted me to do something about it?”_

That, at least, finally earns him a reaction. 

Billy flicks the roach of his blunt onto the grass and pushes away from the Camaro, launching toward the open flap of the tent with the same hungry gleam in his eyes as before. Only it’s different, now — because they’re no longer walking in the middle of a crowd, because there’s no threat of prying eyes necessitating they keep their contact tame. Because Billy has Steve cornered somewhere dark and quiet, and without all the external stimulus and noise keeping Steve distracted, he can’t take his mind off the constant itch beneath his skin. He can’t stop thinking about how good it felt when Billy touched him, or how much he wants to touch him _back._

Anticipation prompts Steve to meet Billy half-way; he barely gets a boot past the opening of the tent before Steve is on him, one hand grabbing a fistful of Billy’s open shirt, the other palming down the front of his bare chest. He feels Billy let out a shuddering breath as his fingertips blaze a trail from the swell of one pec down to the dip of his stomach, and the reaction leaves him feeling smug, even as Billy shoves at his shoulders and Steve stumbles clumsily backward.

The tent flap closes behind Billy, and suddenly it’s too dark to make out anything more than his silhouette. But Steve doesn’t need to see to know where Billy’s hands are; he can feel them as they roughly slide up under his shirt and tug at the patchy fuzz across his chest. 

It’s as though every inch of his skin is electrified and every nerve has a direct line to his cock. When one of Billy’s thumbs finds a nipple and flicks across it, Steve thinks his brain short-circuits for a second, because when he comes to he hears himself groaning and feels one of Billy’s hands against his back, keeping him upright.

“This too much for you, pretty boy?” Billy murmurs. Steve can feel the heat of Billy’s mouth and every puff of his breath against his ear and the side of his throat. It’s so good, so overwhelming, that he almost forgets to answer — doesn’t even know if he _can._ His tongue is practically glued to the roof of his mouth, and his heartbeat feels like it’s in his throat, blocking his words. Steve feels like he’s on fire, and his legs are like jell-o, wobbly and useless beneath him. It’s a wonder that he’s still upright, even with Billy supporting the majority of his weight. 

After a moment spent staring, he manages to croak out a weak: “Not enough.”

That’s all the incentive that Billy needs. He tilts Steve’s head to the side so his lips can latch onto the soft skin of Steve’s pulse point. The breathless whine that escapes him as Billy sucks what is most certainly going to be a gnarly bruise onto his neck would, on any other day, be embarrassing. Right now, though? All Steve can focus on is the wave of pleasure rolling through him with such an intensity that his legs actually _do_ buckle. Billy manages to catch him just before he collapses to the ground.

“Good idea. Didn’t really want to take you apart while standing up, anyway,” Billy says, and Steve just _knows_ he’s smirking, even if he can hardly see it through the darkness of the tent. 

Billy manhandles him onto one of the sleeping bags, insistent but uncharacteristically gentle as he straddles Steve’s waist. If there’s one thing Steve never thought Billy Hargrove could be, it’s gentle. But lo and behold, Billy is somehow still full of surprises.

The sting of a bite placed where he’d just sucked a bruise throws Billy’s moment of careful gentleness right out the window. It’s a heady combination of pleasure-pain that rolls through Steve in waves, rendering him boneless and desperate. Every touch feels blinding in its intensity, every roll of Billy’s hips down into his sending shockwaves of pleasure reverberating through him.

If anyone had told Steve that doing this while rolling on molly could feel _this_ fucking good, he’d have taken it upon himself to do it a long time ago.

Steve shivers every time Billy’s hips rut against his, electricity skittering up his spine. He’s aching in his shorts, and he’s pretty sure that Billy is, too, if the hard line of his cock grinding against his is any indication. 

There’s a damp spot on Steve’s shorts from where his cock is already leaking, and Billy zeroes in on it in no time. When his fingers brush against the spot, just to feel, Steve’s dick gives a little kick and he moans outright, flushing at the desperate, needy sound of his own voice.

“Bet you’ve done _this_ before, too, huh?” Billy asks, and it’s obviously mocking, a little _mean,_ but Steve doesn’t mind because Billy has started grinding his palm against his cock. The friction makes his head swim, lighting sparks behind his eyelids that Steve doesn’t remember shutting. Still, it isn’t enough.

Steve reaches up, desperately fumbling for— for _something_ , he’s not even sure what. He just wants to touch, to feel Billy’s skin under his hands again, to hear what other sounds he can work out of him.

He’s not sure what he ends up grabbing — it feels like Billy’s thigh, just below his ass — but when Steve digs his fingers in and squeezes he’s rewarded by a low, quiet hiss against his throat.

“Maybe,” he says, because he doesn’t really want to tell Billy that he’s never fooled around with a guy before, but he also doesn’t think he could lie convincingly about it. He has a feeling it doesn’t even matter, because Billy probably already _knows._

Still, Steve volleys the question back and tries not to cum in his shorts when Billy’s hips and hand both start grinding against his dick. “Have _you?”_

“That’s for me to know,” Billy rumbles, punctuating his words with another harsh roll of his hips, “and you to find out, Stevie. _If_ you’re good.”

Steve arches up into the motion, his head thrown back and throat bared. Billy bows downward and swipes his tongue along the column of his throat, pulling a sharp little gasp from Steve’s lips. It’s— Steve can’t even begin to describe the feeling of Billy’s tongue dragging against his skin. All he knows is that it’s like there’s a direct line from Billy’s tongue to his cock, causing him to stiffen even more in his shorts.

At this point, Steve is so hard he didn’t even think it’d be _possible_ to get any harder without passing out from blood loss to his brain.

“Again,” Steve demands, his breath coming out in sharp pants. 

He knows how he must look — pupils blown wide, hair mussed, lips swollen and red, chest rising and falling rapidly. Steve’s only regret is not having brought a light source so Billy can see, so he can take in just how wrecked he looks. Because Steve damn well knows he looks _good._

Billy’s smile is a wicked little thing, all teeth and sharp edges. Rather than bending to Steve’s will and fulfilling his request, he leans down again. Lets his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck. And then he just— _bites,_ harsh and unforgiving to the point that it should _hurt,_ it should have Steve shoving him away, should be making his dick wilt in his shorts. The feeling of Billy’s teeth biting hard enough to nearly break skin should absolutely not be the hottest thing Steve has experienced in months — or _years._

And yet, here Steve is, hands grappling for Billy’s ass so he can yank him in closer. He pulls Billy even tighter against his body, grinding their hips together with fierce determination, and panting openly into the stagnant, humid air of the tent. When Billy’s teeth ease up, he pulls back to admire his handiwork. He runs his thumb over the indentations left on Steve’s skin, his lips curling up into a smug, satisfied smile that Steve can just make out through the gloom.

“You better not be about to bust. I ain’t done with you yet,” Billy says. It sounds a bit like a threat, like he thinks Steve has any control over how his body is reacting or what his dick decides to do. It’s bad enough when he’s sober, but right now it’s like all of his senses are dialed up to ten and he’s so hard that it _hurts,_ his cock trapped against the seat of his shorts that feel at least two sizes too small by this point. The worst part is, all they’ve done is grind on each other fully dressed like a couple of horny teenagers, and Steve already feels overwhelmed. He’s pretty sure the second Billy gets his hand on his cock he’s going to pop off. 

_If_ Billy ever gets his hand on Steve’s cock. He’s not actually sure how far this is going. He’s almost afraid to ask.

He’s also a little too distracted by the constant grind of Billy’s clothed dick against his; the only words Steve manages to get out are a few breathy curses when Billy starts feeling up his chest again.

“Shit, you like that, huh?” Billy asks with a chuckle, grabbing at both of Steve’s pecs from under his cropped shirt and scraping his nails against Steve’s skin. The sting of it is so shockingly _good_ that Steve can’t help but moan and buck up, but Billy’s hips keep his ass firmly planted against the sleeping bag. “Like it when I play with your tits, baby?”

All Steve can do is hang on, nodding jerkily while his spine still tries to arch despite Billy’s unrelenting grip. 

“Your— your tongue,” is the only directive he can muster at the moment, and it sounds like such a pathetic whimper that Steve’s ears burn. Billy doesn’t seem to mind, however, humming his appreciation.

“My tongue?” he asks. He’s such a fucking tease; he _knows_ what Steve wants, what he _needs._ But he’s going to play this godforsaken game of cat and mouse because apparently he can’t help being an unrepentant asshole. “Use your words; tell me where you want my tongue. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Steve lets out a frustrated whine, the sound a few octaves too high. His fingers flex from where they’re still grasping at Billy’s ass. A shudder runs through him when Billy leans down to nip at his jaw, a little too harsh to be considered playful. 

“I —” Steve falters, his breath hitching when Billy’s mouth moves to lick at that soft spot just below his ear. “I want you to use your mouth. On them.”

“Hm, them?” Billy echoes. Steve can feel him smirking where his lips press against the side of his neck. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to be more specific. Say it for me, c’mon.”

Steve is so keyed up and frustrated he just wants to _scream_ , because he’s not good at this, he doesn’t— dirty talk isn’t his forte, despite how much he enjoys it when it’s spilling from Billy’s lips. As much as this buildup is nice, he just needs Billy to _do_ something; he just needs him to stop asking questions and get on with it, to get on with touching him, instead. But he knows that Billy won’t stop playing this game until Steve does as he’s asked.

So. With the tips of his ears burning, Steve gives in, his voice small and infuriatingly shy. “My tits. I want you to fucking suck on my tits, you _ass.”_

Billy looks like he’s just won the fucking lottery, a moan of his own tumbling out of him. It’s almost humiliating for Steve, hearing his own words ringing in his ears. As hot and hard as _Billy’s_ words render Steve, it’s different when _he’s_ saying those things. None of the girls he’s been with have ever wanted him to say anything like that. To say anything at all, really, save for the occasional compliment about their tits or a moaned curse every now and again to signal his enjoyment. 

This? This is different. This is unfamiliar territory. Steve feels like he’s drowning, completely at a loss. But at the same time, he’s fucking determined. He knows what he wants, he knows what he has in mind for Billy, to a degree. Knows what he wants _from_ Billy. If Steve has to tear down these barriers and play along to get it, then so be it.

And anyway, it’s almost worth it for the sound Billy makes in response; it’s a low, trembling groan, muffled against the side of Steve’s throat. It’s swiftly followed by a huff of laughter.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who’s so _generously_ offering to give you what you want,” Billy remarks, but he doesn’t give Steve a chance to answer. Because in the next moment, Billy is nearly ripping the stupid rainbow, tie-dyed mess of a crop top from Steve’s body, his hungry eyes zeroing in on the expanse of his torso. Then he’s bending down, lips pressing to one of Steve’s nipples, teeth grazing across his skin. Without warning, Billy takes it into his mouth and gives a harsh suck.

Steve isn’t proud of the sound this drags out of him — something caught between a hiss and a high-pitched keening noise. If he wasn’t rolling so hard, he might have felt embarrassed at how loud he’s being. But Steve is out of his fucking mind, right now, ascended to another plane of existence. Billy Hargrove is _sucking his tits,_ rough and mean like Steve knew he’d be, grinding down against him until Steve’s head spins and his whole body throbs. 

Billy doesn’t stop. He’s overwhelming in the best, worst way; he bites and sucks at Steve’s chest until both of his nipples feel sore and tender, until Steve starts flinching away from Billy’s mouth and pushing at his head with a feeble groan. He doesn’t exactly want Billy to stop, it’s just— It’s too much. Too intense. Steve feels too high and everything Billy is doing with his mouth and teeth and hands is just taking him further.

It’s not exactly a bad thing, but Steve kind of misses the slowburn. 

_“Billy,”_ Steve says, hating how whiny he sounds. He grabs at Billy’s hair, trying, unsuccessfully, to yank Billy away from his chest where he’s sucking a hickey into the skin above his ribcage. All it earns him is a pleased groan, then an annoyed grumble when he tugs even harder. “C’mon, not so hard, man.”

Billy pulls away to stare at him, eyebrow cocked. 

“What, are you that fragile?” He snorts and gives one of Steve’s abused nipples a little flick with his thumb. Steve can’t hold back a startled whimper. “Do I gotta be _gentle_ with you, princess? You gonna break on me otherwise?”

Steve pushes Billy away with an annoyed huff. Billy doesn’t go far, and Steve’s dick is still straining in his shorts, annoyingly enough. He just wants this to _slow down;_ he wants to enjoy it. Savor it. It’s not like he wants to woo him or anything, but if Billy thinks Steve is just going to be used for another rough, quick fuck then, well. They might have a bit of a problem.

 _“No,”_ Steve fires back, setting his jaw. “But I— I just—”

He’s fumbling for his words, what he means to convey evading him. So, he improvises. Gives Billy a sudden shove, sending him toppling backwards until he’s sprawled out on his back. Steve moves quickly, straddling Billy’s hips and hovering over him. If he can’t use his words to tell Billy what he wants, then he’ll just have to show him.

Steve presses the flat of his palms against the exposed skin of Billy’s chest, ignoring the bewildered look Billy is giving him — like he has no idea what Steve is up to, like he can’t fathom this going any other way. 

Billy’s skin feels like fire beneath his fingertips. Steve really, _really_ wants to get his mouth on that tanned expanse of rippling muscle. With nimble fingers that tremble only a little, Steve makes quick work of the remaining buttons of Billy’s shirt, pushing it from his shoulders. When the entirety of Billy’s chest comes into view, Steve has to sit back and just soak it in for a moment. He runs his hands over the soft skin, smoothing his hands over his pecs, his abs, the sharp V line of his hips, his touches slow and gentle.

Their eyes lock for a moment, and Steve can’t read the expression on Billy’s face. Mostly because it’s still obnoxiously dark, but also because from what he _can_ see, Billy looks tense, or guarded. Or maybe a combination of the two. Steve really wants to smooth out the crease in his brow with his fingers, but he has a feeling Billy might not like that very much.

Instead, he opts to dip down and fasten his lips around the soft peak of one of Billy’s nipples. It hardens immediately under the attention, and Steve can’t help the small smile that spreads across his lips. He alternates between suction and little swipes of his tongue, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin every now and then, earning him a rough jerk of Billy’s hips. Steve knows he’s going to leave a hickey — makes it his mission, actually. But he intends to take his time in doing so.

Given the way Billy’s body is reacting, Steve is pretty sure it feels good. Billy’s got his hands fisted in Steve’s hair, and Steve can feel goosebumps spread across his skin every time he gives his nipple a particularly tender, yet determined, suck. 

But Billy is uncharacteristically quiet, and it has Steve pulling back. He’s wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, about to ask if he’s doing okay, when Billy speaks.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Harrington?”

It sounds like an accusation. Through the gloom, Steve can see that Billy is glowering suspiciously up at him. There’s no mistaking that he likes this, though, because Steve can feel his dick pressing into his thigh, and Billy’s pretty pink lips are parted around his heavy, shuddering breaths.

They’re so pretty, in fact, that Steve kind of just wants to kiss them instead of answering.

This time, when Steve leans down and presses their lips together, it’s not under the pretense of sharing smoke. He feels Billy tense, feels him inhale sharply, then finally feels him relax with a full-body shiver. Steve keeps kissing him, working those pretty lips open with his tongue and sucking the bottom one between his teeth until Billy grunts and starts rocking up into him. Billy tastes like weed and strawberries and nicotine — bitter with an edge of sweetness — and the kiss is exactly what Steve wanted, all slow and indulgent. It’s _perfect._

He runs his hands across Billy's bare chest. It's so smooth, his skin hot and damp with sweat. Steve feels his fingertips tingle as he runs them down Billy's sides, tracing every ridge of bone and muscle. He thinks he could keep touching Billy like this all night, mapping his body with his hands until he's memorized every inch of it.

That's probably the molly speaking, but whatever. Steve has wanted to get his hands on Billy for so long, and now that he has his chance he isn't about to squander it.

So it's kind of annoying when, after a few minutes spent just kissing and petting and reveling in how good it all feels, Billy abruptly snatches both his wrists and holds them in place. Steve feels teeth dig meanly into his tongue, until he can't help but recoil away from the sting. 

"I _said,_ what the _hell_ are you doing?" Billy snaps. He looks annoyed — or like he's _trying_ to look annoyed, but he's still canting his hips up against Steve's and he's got this glazed, far-away look in his eyes. "We gonna fuck, or what?"

Steve makes a face, not quite understanding what Billy’s problem is. They _are_ going to fuck, that’s the whole point. But Steve has always been a bit of romantic, taking his time and supplying his partners with the most careful attention. He’s never — not once — had anyone _complain_ about it. Until now.

He gives his wrists an experimental tug, but Billy has them locked in an iron grip, one that’s beginning to feel just shy of painful. Steve twists his wrists a little harder, setting his jaw and glaring at Billy until he releases them. 

“What, you want me to hurt you or some shit?” Steve asks, his tone laced with frustration. He’s rubbing at his wrists absentmindedly, trying to soothe away the soreness.

Billy shrugs, threading his fingers together behind his head. “Or some shit.”

“Figured you’d need some, um. Some preparation or something, considering, well— Y’know,” Steve mumbles, folding his arms across his chest. Hugging himself tight, like he might fly apart at any moment if he doesn’t.

Billy is giving him that leering smile again, the one that’s harsh and bitter and just on the side of _mean._ “Considering what? Considering I don’t got a fuckin’ pussy you can get wet? That what you’re trying to tell me, Harrington?”

“Jesus, Billy. You’re a real dick sometimes, you know that?”

“‘Course I know that,” Billy tells him with a roll of his eyes, following it up with a harsh smack to Steve’s ass, hard enough to make him jump. “But I’m not one of your pathetic little girlfriends. Quit it with the lovey dovey bullshit and just fuck me already.”

Steve narrows his eyes, searching what he can see of Billy’s face through the darkness. If he didn’t know any better, he’d be pretty damn sure that all of this macho-man bullshit is just a front, just a way for Billy to hide the truth. The truth that he’s _nervous,_ that he’s never really been taken care of before. That this is new and unfamiliar enough that it feels like his first time all over again.

But of course, Steve _does_ know better. Billy is simply an asshole, through and through. This is just another testament to that. And with someone like this, someone with as sharp of edges as Billy, Steve doesn’t know how to explain that he’s not just going to _take._ That the only thing he’ll be taking is his time.

So, he improvises again. He’s starting to get really good at it, if he’s being honest. 

“It’s the molly,” Steve blurts. “Touching just feels good. You don’t want to ruin my first roll, do you?”

He figures that giving Billy _something_ he wants will settle him down enough to allow Steve to do his thing; Billy wanted the truth about Steve’s rolling experience, and now he has it. And Steve is right, it eases a bit of Billy’s fight, enough so that Steve is able to lean back down to press a few slow, lingering kisses along his jaw and resettle his hands on Billy’s chest. He can feel the erratic beating of Billy’s pulse thumping beneath his fingertips.

It's the molly, Steve thinks. It's the molly that's making Billy's heart skip a few beats when Steve runs his fingers down along the ladder of his ribs. It's the molly that has him letting out a low, ragged groan when Steve leans in and runs his tongue across Billy's pec.

It isn't until Steve kisses his way down Billy's hairless stomach to the hem of his shorts that Billy seems to find his voice again.

 _"Christ,”_ he hisses, voice strained and a little breathless. “You ever blown a guy before, pretty boy?"

Steve considers the merits of lying. He figures that it’s going to be really obvious if he does, because he’s already nervous as hell just trying to work open the front of Billy’s shorts. Besides, Billy seems like the kind of guy who’s experienced enough to tell the difference. 

He’s also the kind of guy who would call Steve out on it just to be an asshole, so.

“If I say I haven’t?” Steve asks, wincing at how tentative he sounds. He clears his throat, steadying his voice before he speaks again. “What would you say?”

Billy touches his fingertips to Steve’s jaw, his thumb resting at his chin. He runs the pad of it over Steve’s skin, almost as if he’s mesmerized by the feel of it. Steve can’t help but shiver at the touch.

“I think I’d say… watch it with the teeth,” is all Billy supplies him with before his fingers tighten and he shoves Steve’s head down. 

Steve grunts a little in surprise before he regains his composure and smacks Billy’s hand away. He has half a mind to just bite Billy’s dick through his shorts out of spite, but Billy is enough of a freak that he’d probably be into that, and Steve isn’t about to give Billy what he wants. Not yet, at least. That’s not how he’s intending this evening to go, despite Billy’s determination to make this as hard and fast as he possibly can.

It’s not like rough is necessarily a bad thing, it’s more that Billy is just— he’s _desperate_ for it, and not in a good way. Not in a way that makes Steve want to give it to him. It’s more like Billy has this idea that he somehow deserves it.

And Steve really does think he could dish out a bit of punishment if he wanted to, that he could get the perfectly round cheeks of Billy’s ass bright red and sore. But he’ll only do it if Billy will have fun. Only if he’ll get off on it. Steve won’t even entertain the idea if Billy only wants it because he, for whatever reason, thinks this should hurt.

With careful fingers, Steve unzips Billy’s fly and gets to work on the button of his shorts, then hooks both hands into the material and slowly tugs them down the length of Billy’s thighs. His fingers skim along the soft expanse of Billy’s skin, admiring the goosebumps they leave in their wake. When his shorts are completely off, Steve tosses them to the other side of the tent, already forgotten. 

It’s only once Steve moves to pull off Billy’s boxers that he hesitates. Because he’s about to see a guy’s dick — _Billy’s_ dick — up close and personal for the first time in his young life. Sure, he’s seen other guys’ dicks in the locker room after gym class or basketball practice, but it’s a hell of a lot different having one in his face. One he’s about to get his mouth on, one he’s about to (try) to work down his throat.

Billy lets out an impatient huff, his hips shifting a little. When Steve looks up, Billy is giving him this look that screams _‘well, what’re you waiting for?’,_ coupled with this cocky little smirk. It’s obvious that Billy is challenging him, and Steve just wants to wipe that look right off his face. 

But, first.

“Is there a light in here?” Steve asks. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness well enough that he doesn’t miss the way Billy’s smirk falters, just for a split-second, into something resembling uncertainty. It’s with a glare and a hint of reluctance that he finally caves, stretching sideways so he can flick on a small electric lantern. 

The tent is awash in a pale golden glow, and suddenly Steve can see everything. Billy is staring up at him, stripped down to his boxers, wild-eyed and slick with sweat as he leans back on his elbows. The outline of his cock is plainly visible where it strains against the fabric. He looks like something out of a dirty mag. Like a pin-up model or a porn star. And Steve is pretty sure he’s never been harder in his fucking _life._

That might just be the molly talking. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s been kind-of-sort-of crushing on Billy for a while now.

Either way, Steve decides not to think about it too much. 

It’s easier to focus instead on how good Billy feels under his hands, on how that glare melts away into something dazed and blissed out when Steve runs his palms up Billy’s thighs and tentatively squeezes at his cock.

The expression on Billy’s face is what ultimately pushes Steve to keep going. He looks so fucking hot, with his mouth falling open and his head tilting back and his eyes half-lidded like he’s in ecstasy.

And, well. He _is._ But it’s not just the drugs, Steve thinks. 

Steve hooks his fingers through the waistband of Billy’s boxers and yanks them down until his cock bobs free. He hesitates for a second — long enough to appreciate the sight of it, slick with pre and flushed all rosy like Billy’s lips — before leaning in and pressing his lips against the crown.

Billy cusses above him. He jerks up from the ground, then grabs, sudden and desperate, at the back of Steve’s head like he’s trying to hold him there. Steve has just long enough to feel a surge of smugness before Billy goes and ruins the moment by running his mouth.

 _“Shit,_ princess. Don’t just kiss the tip,” he sneers. “It ain’t gonna turn into a fucking prince.”

Pulling back a few inches, Steve fixes him with a blank look, getting a little more than tired of Billy’s pushy attitude. It’s just— Billy has made it clear that he _wants_ this, but he can’t seem to stop puffing his chest and adopting all this false bravado. And for what? Steve doesn’t totally get it. He’d _offered_ this, has made it clear he wants to take care of him, made it clear that Billy doesn’t have to rush this or make it something he just has to get through. But Billy has always acted like a bit of a spoiled brat, he supposes.

“You sure do got a lot of shit to say to the guy who’s nice enough to get your dick in his mouth,” Steve snaps, his words surprising even himself. 

Billy looks mildly taken aback, but only for a split second. Then, he’s arching a brow, sizing Steve up with a calculating look. “No one said you have to.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” _I want to, so quit acting like a horse’s ass and let me give you what you need._ The words remain unspoken, but Steve feels their weight simmering between them nonetheless.

He doesn’t waste another moment, doesn’t give Billy a chance to start spewing more incendiary bullshit. Steve ducks his head down and licks a tentative stripe up the length of Billy’s cock, reveling in the way the velvety skin just glides against his tongue, smooth and easy.

 _“Fuck.”_ Billy collapses backwards, his arms draping over his face as he gives a full-body shudder.

Steve takes his cock in hand, admiring it for another moment before wrapping his lips around the tip. Billy grunts. It’s a half-choked sound, like he’s trying to stuff it back into his mouth before Steve can hear him. The thought has Steve making it his personal mission to draw as many sounds out of Billy as he can, suddenly desperate to hear just how much Billy is enjoying this.

He’s still testing the waters, still getting used to the weight of Billy’s cock in his hand and the taste of pre spreading over his tongue. Smoothing the flat of his tongue over the head, Steve gives an experimental suck. Billy’s hips stutter upwards, and Steve thinks he hears a needy moan, but it’s muffled by Billy’s arms still slung over his face. Like he’s hiding, like he’s ashamed by how much he likes this.

Another mission, another addition to the checklist of things Steve vows to fix. 

Steve pulls his lips from Billy’s cock, tonguing curiously at the skin at the underside of the tip. It’s when he fastens his lips to that sensitive area, sucking gently, that all the breath sounds like it rushes from Billy’s lungs at once and he sits back up on his elbows. He watches Steve with hungry eyes, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted and glistening with spit.

It’s thrilling, to say the least. Emboldening, even. Steve adjusts his position so he can comfortably get his mouth on Billy’s dick. Then he envelopes Billy’s cock in the heat of his mouth, sinking down as far as he can while simultaneously trying to avoid scraping the soft skin with his teeth. 

He almost gags when the head of Billy’s dick brushes against the back of his throat. It’s worth it, though, if only for the sound Billy makes: a breathless, raspy groan that sounds like its been dragged unwillingly out of him. Steve glances up in time to see that Billy has one of his arms slung over his mouth, trying to muffle himself.

There’s no point. Either Steve is a natural at giving head, or the molly has Billy too worked up to keep himself quiet.

Steve is pretty sure it’s the molly.

Still, he spares no effort in working Billy’s dick with his mouth, swallowing down as much as he can reasonably take without choking and bobbing his head at a steady, indulgent pace. The slide of Billy’s cock past his lips feels kind of nice. It’s hypnotic, in a way, especially when Billy’s fingers keep flexing in his hair, blunt nails scraping at his scalp, and his hips start rocking up in counterpoint to Steve’s mouth until they fall into the same rhythm. Steve must be at least somewhat decent at this, because Billy grunts and moans and cusses into his forearm the entire time.

So it’s kind of a disappointment when Billy suddenly yanks Steve off his dick and shoves him back onto his ass. Steve blinks, dazed from the abruptness of it and the pleasant buzz that’s still filling his head, and stares across at Billy from the other end of the sleeping bag. 

He half-expects that this is the part where Billy throws him out of the tent, so he’s surprised to see Billy shucking off his boxers and crawling closer. It isn’t until Steve feels hands on the seat of his shorts, working them open and pulling them down his thighs, that he realizes that Billy isn’t stopping this. 

In fact—

“You wanna fuck me, princess?” Billy asks. Steve isn’t sure how he manages to make it sound like an insult and an offer at the same time, but he doesn’t really care. Either way, his brain is short-circuiting. Billy has Steve’s dick out and is wrapping his hands around the girth of it, watching with a dark, greedy gleam in his eyes as it disappears into his fist when he gives it an experimental stroke. 

The moan that slips through Steve’s lips is nothing short of filthy. He ruts up into Billy’s warm fist, watching the way his dick slides through with wide eyes and parted lips. He’s aware that Billy asked him a question, that Billy is offering to let Steve fuck him _again._ But Steve can’t think of anything right now other than the feeling of Billy’s hand locked around him like a vise, the sensation overwhelming in a way he’s never experienced before.

Billy lets Steve thrust into his hand for a few disappointingly short moments before he pins Steve’s hips down with his free hand, the other squeezing the base of his cock to get his attention.

“I asked you a question, pretty boy,” Billy says. It comes out as more of a hiss. His fingers flex around Steve’s dick as he leans in close. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Steve whines a little, his hips jerking upwards a fraction of an inch. Billy stills them, and Steve releases a throaty groan that’s too desperate for his liking. “I— yes. God, _yes.”_

Billy releases his hips, and Steve is able to thrust into that warm palm one last time before Billy releases his dick, too. He crawls away for a moment, rummaging through his overnight bag before returning. Billy tosses something to Steve, and it lands in his lap.

It’s a generously full tube of clear liquid that Steve recognizes immediately, his cheeks warming. Billy had just thrown a bottle of lube at him before crawling back onto the sleeping bag on all fours, his ass pointed directly at Steve’s face like he’s _presenting_ himself.

Steve balks, his mind racing. He doesn’t— he’s never done anything like this with a guy before. There was a girl that let him fuck her in the ass at a house party once, but it was uncomfortable and cramped in that bathroom, and Steve hardly had a chance to work the girl open with unpracticed fingers before she was demanding he get on with it. That she could take it, he just needed to hurry up.

Needless to say, it didn’t go very well. 

Steve stares down at the bottle of lube, his heart feeling like it’s leapt up into his throat. It’s a daunting task, but he _wants_ this. He wants it so badly that he can practically fucking taste it. So, he looks up at Billy, who’s still on all fours with his ass bared, craning his head to look at Steve expectantly. 

“You have to, um— I’ll need a bit of direction,” Steve tells him, but it comes out as more of a question. He scratches his head, jittery with anticipation.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Jesus, ‘s not that hard, Harrington. Just like fingering a girl, but tighter. Unless you never fingered a girl before? Maybe you’re the type to just get your dick wet and anyone else be damned?”

Steve shifts forward, his eyes narrowed. When his palm connects with the flesh of Billy’s ass, the clap echoing ever-so-slightly throughout the tent, Billy almost looks surprised.

“I meant direction on what you _like,”_ Steve clarifies huffily, because that should have been obvious and Billy doesn’t have to be such an asshole about it. Then again, it’s Billy. _Asshole_ is his default setting whenever he’s not trying to charm his way into some girl’s panties. 

Apparently, he can’t extend that same treatment to getting Steve out of his shorts. But, whatever, it doesn’t matter. _Shouldn’t_ matter. Steve has fantasized about this on too many occasions to back out now just because Billy is being himself.

“I like it when there’s less talking and more fucking,” Billy says snarkily, rocking his hips back and forth like he’s too impatient to keep still. “Preferably both, if you think you can multitask. But if that’s too much for you right now, princess, you can just—”

Nothing will ever be more satisfying than shutting Billy up mid-sentence. Steve grins at the quiet sound of his hiss, at the way Billy recoils away like the bit of cool lube dripping down his ass crack has somehow stung him. He deserves that, though, and Steve is kind enough to make sure his finger is warm before he slides it down the small of Billy’s back and between his cheeks. The sensation of cool lube and warm skin makes Steve shiver. Everything feels so good, especially when he has something to focus on, something to lose himself in.

The tip of his slick finger pushes into Billy. He wasn’t wrong — it’s _tight,_ so much tighter than pussy, and Billy feels so sweltering inside, like he’s burning up.

Billy makes another noise, this time muffled against his forearm. It doesn’t sound like a complaint, so Steve takes it as an invitation to keep working his finger inside, slow and careful, until he gets it buried to the knuckle and can start steadily fucking it in and out.

The sight of it is mesmerizing. Even more so once Steve starts working in a second finger, watching keenly as it’s swallowed up beside the first. 

Beneath him, Billy breaks his brief stretch of silence to cuss, his voice low and breathy.

“C’mon, _harder.”_

Steve tries not to sigh audibly, instead opting to continue fucking Billy open with his fingers at an unhurried pace. He’s not about to waste the opportunity to watch the width of his two fingers get swallowed by Billy’s hole, no matter how much Billy nags him to speed things up.

On the next push in, Steve’s palm twinges, cramping up just so. He involuntarily curls his fingers, trying to loosen up the muscles in his hand. The moment he does, Billy tenses, his hands balling up into fists, the material of the sleeping bag bunched up in them.

“Mother _fucker,”_ Billy hisses, his back arching prettily. Steve is captivated by the motion, his eyes tracking every movement. He pauses for a fraction of a second, just simmering in Billy’s reaction. It earns him a _‘you planning on moving any fucking time today, Harrington?’,_ and Steve can’t help but roll his eyes. 

He slips his fingers out gently, his dick jumping at the way Billy’s hole gapes as they slide free. Grabbing the lube, Steve adds a bit more to his fingers, then pushes them back inside and curls them on the instroke. He finds that spot that makes Billy gasp and moan with relative ease, and can’t hide his satisfied grin.

But, whatever. It’s not like Billy can see him, anyways.

As for Billy, the sound he makes will forever be imprinted in Steve’s memory. It’s caught between a half-choked moan and a desperate keening sound, his hips jerking backwards to meet Steve’s fingers, tightening around them enough to have a low groan rumbling in Steve’s chest.

“Yeah? You like that?” Steve dares to ask. His voice is soft and breathless, sounding a little more than awestruck. 

Billy just grunts in response, face still buried in his forearm. It’s probably as good as he’s going to get for now. He’ll settle for the throaty sighs and groans currently spilling from Billy’s lips, though Steve never thought there’d come a time when he would actually _miss_ Billy’s voice.

He doesn't mind, though. Not really. He's feeling a hell of a lot higher than he did ten minues ago, and watching Billy practically fuck back onto his hand takes on an almost surreal quality, like Steve is watching him through a screen. Like he's just lost himself in a really good porn flick — _'blonde jock gets rawed'_ — and, like, yeah, Steve may or may not have some incriminating search history as far as his quiet crush on Billy is concerned. 

He's pretty sure this is real, though. Billy just _looks_ like he belongs in a movie, or a raunchy centerfold, and Steve can't stop staring. He's transfixed, marveling at the way the muscles in Billy's back ripple and tense, at the swell of his ass as he pushes it back against Steve's hand. 

"God, you're so hot," Steve says before he can stop himself. He can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed about it — because it's true, because Billy's only response is a throaty groan when Steve starts fucking a third finger into him. Because he's fantasized about getting his hands on Billy for so long, and now that he finally can it's just— _overwhelming._

Steve isn’t sure how long he spends fingering Billy open, but it feels like a small eternity. So he probably should have expected Billy's patience to snap eventually.

Still, it takes him off-guard when he mouths between Billy's shoulder blades and then suddenly feels an elbow jammed against his chest. Steve rolls with it, too dazed to fight back when Billy turns around and shoves him onto his ass.

"We don't have all fucking night," Billy grumbles; he sounds more breathless and put-out than angry about it. Steve can't help the quiet laugh that escapes him, too high and giddy to keep it down.

"I mean, don't we?" he says, grinning even as Billy roughly pushes him down onto his back. "I thought we were the only ones sharing your tent."

Billy doesn’t answer him. He has this look of determination on his face as he grabs the lube and slicks Steve up. The next moment, Steve can feel the tip of his cock pressing against Billy’s slackened hole. Then, Billy is sinking down onto him in one smooth motion. 

Steve’s eyes roll back into his head. Billy is purely tight heat, but there’s minimal resistance as Steve’s dick slides up into him. When he’s fully seated inside, Steve can feel the swell of Billy’s ass seated on top of him, his cock stuffed so far inside him that it’s a wonder it doesn’t pop right out of his mouth. His senses feel like they’ve been dialed up to ten, every twitch of Billy’s hips igniting a fire in his gut.

“Holy fuck,” Steve breathes, finally looking up at Billy with wide eyes. “You feel… you feel…”

He can’t quite get the words out, because Billy doesn’t waste a second before he starts riding Steve’s cock. He moves slowly, at first, like he’s adjusting to the feeling. Then he’s setting a moderate pace, fucking himself down onto Steve with his head tipped back and his lips parted, releasing soft little pants into the quiet of the tent. Steve can’t help but moan his approval. 

“Fuck, _Steve.”_

At first, Steve thinks he’s imagining things. But then it happens again, his name spilling from Billy’s lips like a prayer, and Steve knows it’s real. Billy is moaning his name, sounding so beautifully wrecked that Steve can’t help but fasten his hands to Billy’s hips before starting to fuck up into him.

Billy steadies himself with one hand on Steve’s chest, the muscles of his thighs flexing every time Steve thrusts into him. His blue eyes are squeezed shut, like he’s concentrating. Or maybe he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of Steve inside of him, fucking him slow and deep.

“Fuck, baby,” Steve groans, digging his fingers into the meat of Billy’s hips. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Then why don’t you—” Billy starts, then cuts himself off when Steve gives a particularly hard thrust, his breath hitching. “Why don’t you quit your yapping and fuck me like you mean it, pretty boy?”

Steve shifts his hips so he can fuck into Billy from a better angle, wanting to hear Billy cry out his name again. He moves a hand to Billy’s chest so he can thumb at one of his nipples, delighting in the way the bud stiffens readily. Billy hisses at that, sinking his nails into Steve's skin until it burns, until Steve is sure that he's left behind angry red welts. It thrills Steve to know that he's going to leave this with marks and bruises — little mementos to remind him that tonight wasn't just some fever dream. Even if it feels like one.

Billy is bouncing on him like it's his job, now. The slap of his thighs as they meet Steve's halfway is loud, and they're in a tent, so the walls are paper-thin. Anyone standing outside will be able to hear them.

Billy doesn't seem to care, judging by how vocal he's being. He barely bothers to lower his voice when he starts running his mouth — or _tries_ to run it, anyway, when he isn't grunting and panting and cussing in equal measure.

"Yeah, that's more like it. Fuck me hard, baby. Make me feel it tomorrow," he says with a groan; he's got this fucked-out look on his face, but somehow Billy's grin remains perpetually smug. 

He leans in closer, bracing one hand above Steve's shoulder. The other curls loosely around Steve's throat, pressed right up against his Adam's apple. "Nice and tight, isn't it? Bet you can't go back to pussy now. Bet I've fucking _ruined_ it for you."

The hand around Steve's throat squeezes, just a little. It's still enough to make Steve's entire world pitch sideways, to send pleasure spidering across Steve's nerves until his entire body is throbbing in time to the beat of his pulse that he can feel pounding rabbit-quick against Billy's palm.

And it’s _good,_ so good that Steve can hardly think straight. He wants _more —_ wants to get deeper, wants to set a faster rhythm. He grabs Billy’s wrist, letting him squeeze his hand tighter for just a moment longer. Then he gives it a demanding twist until it eases up. Steve lifts Billy off of him with more ease than he’d thought possible — although he has to note that he’s probably operating on pure adrenaline at this point — and manhandles him onto his side.

“The fuck do you think you’re—” Billy starts, sounding beyond irritated. Almost like he’s liable to swing his fist backwards and pop Steve right in the teeth.

But Billy doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence, because Steve plasters himself to his back, close enough that he can feel Billy’s back muscles rippling against his chest. He hikes up one of Billy’s legs before lining himself up and driving back inside. As for Billy? He fucking _howls,_ one hand bending behind him to grab onto Steve like he’s holding on for dear life.

Steve keeps Billy’s leg raised, pounding into him while mouthing at his neck. He can’t help but suck at the skin a little, wanting to mark Billy up just as much as he wants to _be_ marked. In this position, he’s able to sink his cock in even deeper, but he’s also able to touch so much more — able to get his hands on Billy’s ass, his thighs, his stomach, his chest. On those biceps that Steve has drooled over for so goddamn long.

Most importantly, though, he’s able to get a hand around Billy’s dick, stroking him in time with his thrusts. It’s overwhelming, every sensation rushing through his body like a tidal wave, consuming him. All Steve can focus on is the feeling of Billy clenched around him, on the way his dick rests hot and heavy in his palm. 

“God, _yes._ Fuck me, princess,” Billy pants, but it’s less of a demand and more of an encouragement. “Yeah, fuckin’ split me open on your cock, baby.”

Steve grunts his approval, Billy’s words nearly making him blow his load right then and there. It wouldn’t be so bad, getting to watch his cum leak out of Billy’s ass. Steve would maybe even clean it up with his tongue, lick himself right out of Billy’s hole. The thought is appealing enough that he _does_ intend to do just that, but not yet. He’s not ready for this to be over, not when they’ve just gotten started. Not when he’s enjoying this as much as he is.

So Steve presses himself flush to Billy's ass, burying himself nice and deep until he can feel Billy's back flex and hears his breath catch. He stops fucking into Billy, then. Just gives the base of Billy's cock a squeeze and mouths at the nape of his neck. It feels so good — so hot and tight and slick. Billy smells amazing, too, like sweat and cologne and hairspray. Steve groans. Loses himself in his senses, for a moment. Almost forgets that Billy is impatient and perpetually difficult.

The reminder comes in the form of a frustrated snarl and the rough push of Billy's ass back against him, like he's trying to fuck himself on Steve's cock but doesn't have enough force and momentum.

Steve ignores his efforts, the same way he ignores the hand that wraps around his and tries to get him to keep working at Billy's dick. He holds it there, steadfast. Squeezes a little harder when Billy doesn't stop.

"The fuck are you stopping for?" Billy hisses through his teeth once he clues into the fact that Steve is only interested in kissing lazily at the back of his head and isn't going to start moving any time soon. "C'mon, Harrington. Don't tell me you fell asleep back there."

Billy sounds less pissed off than he does keyed up and desperate. It's kind of nice knowing that he’s this worked up because of Steve, even if he's being an ass about it.

“You know, I’ll be nice. But… only if you say please.” Steve drags his tongue along the expanse of Billy’s neck, gyrating his hips slowly. Torturously slowly, if he’s being honest. Billy isn’t the only asshole in this tent; Steve has had his fair share of peak douchebag moments.

The hand covering Steve’s clamps down, Billy’s nails digging into his skin once again. “Fuck _off,_ Harrington. Get on with it or get the fuck out.”

Steve gives a pointed thrust of his hips, just the one. It has Billy stuttering over his last word, but he doesn’t get much more than that, because Steve stills his hips again. He swats Billy’s hand away before releasing his dick and sliding his hand up his abdominals. Steve rotates his hips in slow, tiny circles — just enough to have Billy panting, but not enough for him to get off. He toys with one of Billy’s nipples again, pinching hard before soothing the bud with the pad of his thumb.

“I think you’re full of shit, Billy,” Steve murmurs in his ear. He sucks Billy’s earlobe into his mouth, biting down and then releasing it. Steve can tell he has Billy on the ropes, and it’s got him feeling brazen. “I think you’d chase me down if I got up and left right now. Admit it, you love my cock in your ass. You’re a fucking size queen, and I think you’ve known for a while what I’m packing. ‘S why I’m here, isn’t it?”

A half-choked whimper escapes Billy’s lips before he bites his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut. Several beats of silence pass before he speaks. _“Christ,_ do you ever stop fucking talking?”

“No, but I’m starting to think you like it.”

And with that, Steve starts moving again, setting a punishing pace, earning a low, drawn-out moan from Billy. He shoves his palm in Billy’s face, leaning forward to nip at the shallow skin covering his pulse point. “C’mon. Lick.”

It’s short and sweet, but Billy gets the memo. He doesn’t even spit at Steve for that particular pet name, just laves his tongue across the flat of Steve’s palm. Slicking it up, even delving between his fingers — and a little greedily, at that. Like he’s been wanting nothing more than Steve’s fingers in his mouth this whole damn time.

And, well, Steve is only too happy to oblige him.

He slides two fingers against Billy’s lips and can’t help but groan when Billy immediately latches on. He sucks them down with gusto, with a wet _slurp_ and a light grazing of teeth that immediately sends Steve’s mind to other places. He’s sure that Billy is showing off in some form of malicious compliance, but Steve doesn’t care — he finds it hard to when he presses down on Billy’s tongue and works his fingers in to the second knuckle and feels Billy reflexively swallow around them, suckling like it’s Steve dick he’s got his lips around, instead.

Steve briefly considers trading places, but grinding against Billy is its own piece of heaven right now, and he isn’t about to give up the hot clench of Billy’s ass for anything.

Well. Maybe just _one_ thing…

It’s a little frustrating that Steve can only kiss at Billy’s neck and hair from this angle, after all, and he’s jonesing for the feeling of those pretty pink lips against his.

That’s his sole motivation for pulling out and rolling Billy onto his back. Billy goes without protest, too dazed to complain until Steve is nudging his thighs apart and Billy seemingly clues in to the change in position.

“ _Missionary,_ Harrington? And here I thought you weren’t vanilla.” Billy makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t try to stop Steve. Instead he just lays there, panting, nipples peaked, cock leaking, mouth agape like he’s fucking gagging for it. 

Steve doesn’t hesitate — doesn’t think he could if he needed to. He sinks back into Billy in one swift movement and starts fucking into him at the same steady, relentless pace as before.

It’s better like this. _So_ much better. Because now Steve gets to kiss Billy on the mouth. Now he can swallow up Billy’s moans and feel that sensation of lips-on-lips, of Billy’s teeth and tongue someplace far more sensitive than his fingers. Steve’s heart does strange flutters in his chest. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with the molly.

Whatever it is, it’s bliss. Pure, perfect bliss.

No wonder Steve doesn’t last longer than another dozen thrusts before his orgasm hits him so hard he’s pretty sure he momentarily blacks out. 

“Billy I’m— fuck, baby, that’s it, make me fucking cum,” Steve babbles, his hips stuttering. He fully loses himself in the feeling of spilling so deeply inside of Billy, his hips pumping erratically. It feels like his orgasm lasts a small eternity, though only a handful of seconds have likely passed.

Either way, Steve buries his face into Billy’s neck with a groan as he pumps him full with the last few spurts of cum, his hips slowly coming to a stop. He collapses on top of Billy, briefly wondering if Billy has made any noise, or if he’s said anything at all, because there’s a persistent ringing in his ears that started at the same time as his orgasm and it hasn’t let up since. His whole body feels like a livewire, every sensation thrumming through him with an intensity that settles deep in his bones. 

It takes him a few moments to come down, the feeling of Billy’s fingers tapping incessantly at his shoulder clearing the remainder of haze shrouding his brain. Billy pushes at Steve’s shoulder with an irritated huff, though his movements are weak and he sounds more breathless than annoyed. 

“Hot as that was,” Billy says, wriggling his hips, “I don’t got all night here. You planning on making me cum anytime soon?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away, just presses languid, open-mouthed kisses along Billy’s jaw, until he reaches his mouth. He captures Billy’s lips in a lazy kiss, one hand moving to tangle in his curls, the other planted on the ground to help hold himself up. Billy arches up into the kiss, clenching around Steve’s softening cock.

The kiss alone is enough to get Billy amped up and impatient again, pushing at Steve to get him moving, making these little irritated grunts in between each kiss. Steve pulls away first, slowly slipping out of him before working his way down Billy’s body.

He doesn’t stop at his cock, though Billy’s hips give a little jerk when Steve’s lips graze the tip on his way down. Steve pushes at Billy’s thighs until they give, spreading wide enough to give him room to work. 

“Tick-fucking-tock, Stevie,” Billy sighs, even tapping his wrist like he’s got a watch on, in true drama queen fashion. “My dick isn’t gonna suck itself.”

Steve gives him a toothy grin, spreading the cheeks of Billy’s ass with nimble fingers. “Neither am I.”

The first touch of Steve’s tongue to Billy’s hole earns him a sharp cry, Billy’s hands immediately flying to Steve’s hair. His cum has already started to leak out, but Steve catches the majority of it on his tongue, lapping over his pucker with lazy strokes. He teases the slackened ring of muscle before dipping inside, moaning at the feeling of Billy wrapped around his tongue. Eating Billy out comes almost naturally, Steve eating his cum out of him like it’s his fucking job.

When Steve moves to suck at Billy’s rim, Billy’s whole body seems to spasm. Every muscle in Billy’s body goes taut, his toes curling at the sensation.

“ _Shit,_ I need… I need—” Billy breaks off, his words turning into a ragged moan as he tugs at one of Steve’s hands.

“I got you,” Steve murmurs, shifting away from Billy’s ass for a moment to press a tender kiss to his inner thigh.

He wraps a hand around Billy’s cock before diving back inside, eating him out with fierce determination while his hand works over his length with firm, steady strokes. Steve puts his back into it, suddenly determined to see and hear Billy cum. 

It burns inside of him, the desire to know what Billy looks and sounds like when he falls apart. And it doesn’t take long, either, before Billy tenses up, moaning openly into the quiet of the tent. He’s loud and unabashed, and the way his muscles tense just before he tips over the edge is nearly enough to get Steve hard again. 

For now, though, Steve is content to just bask in the afterglow and take in the sight Billy makes when he cums. It's a pretty fucking incredible sight, in Steve's opinion. He watches intently as Billy shudders and then relaxes, panting hard and flushed across every inch of his bare, golden skin. Then he just lays there, looking stunned and disarmed in a way Steve has never seen on him before. 

And he just— Billy looks so pretty and perfect that Steve can't help himself. He leans down and plants a kiss on Billy's mouth, gets his tongue against those rosy red lips, lets Billy pant into his mouth, instead..

Surprisingly, Billy doesn't protest. His mouth is lax against Steve's, his body limp. When Steve deepens the kiss a little and runs his fingers through Billy's sweat-damp hair, Billy grunts like he's into it. Steve takes that as his signal to keep going — not that he intends to stop until Billy makes him, because between the molly and the post-orgasm high, kissing feels so fucking good that Steve wants to drag this moment out for as long as he can.

They stay like that for what feels like a while. Steve isn't sure how long they make out for, honestly. He can't wrap his head around time right now, but it seems strange to him that Billy would put up with kissing for this long.

So, it's to be expected that eventually Steve feels a hand shoving at his chest.

He breaks away from Billy's mouth and pushes up onto his arms, grinning dopily down at him, feeling the highest he's felt all night. Which is saying something.

"Shit, Harrington, you already down for round two?" Billy says, his voice thick and gravelly — probably from all the groaning. Steve feels a fresh wave of pride and almost doesn't register what Billy is saying, let alone the fact that he's sporting a half-chub that's digging into Billy's thigh, until Billy starts to squirm underneath him.

Steve groans. The friction is a lot right now, but he doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to do anything, except maybe kiss Billy for the rest of the night.

"Get off," Billy grumbles. His grouchiness sounds a bit forced, and Steve wants to push him, to see how committed to the act Billy is, so he doesn't budge. He just lays there, draped across Billy's chest like the world's clingiest blanket. 

Billy sighs, shoving at Steve’s shoulder again, before it falls limp against the muscles of Steve’s bicep when he doesn’t move. Steve leans down and seals their lips together, smiling into Billy’s weak grunt of protest, then finally rolls off of him and onto his back. 

Half of Steve’s body is on the sleeping bag, the other half resting on the chilly plastic floor of the tent, but he doesn’t care. It feels good on his overheated skin. Still, it isn’t long before Steve finds himself missing the warm comfort of Billy’s body. He rolls onto his side and wriggles until he’s flush against Billy, slinging an arm across his chest and tugging him close, burying his face into his shoulder.

“You’re like a damn leech,” Billy grumbles, though he doesn’t make any move to shove Steve off of him.

It's a victory if Steve has ever heard one. Steve presses a gentle kiss to the swell of Billy’s shoulder, maneuvering them until they’re practically spooning. From this position, Steve can bury his face into Billy’s curls. It doesn’t even begin to bother him that they’re sweat-damp and a little matted. He noses along Billy’s scalp, leaving soft little kisses in his wake, basking in the sweet sighs Billy makes as he does. Eventually, Steve tucks his face into Billy’s neck with a satisfied smile.

“You know, you’re really pretty when you cum,” Steve mumbles after a few beats of comfortable silence, still smiling against Billy’s skin.

Billy snorts, but he shifts a little, like he’s trying to burrow deeper into Steve’s space. “I’m always pretty.”

It’s such a _Billy_ thing to say that Steve almost rolls his eyes, but there’s something in his voice that stops him. Something that sounds an awful lot like barely-subdued pride, and maybe a little surprise. Like maybe no one has ever told Billy that before. Like maybe it’s something he didn’t know he needed to hear until now. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. His lips find the soft skin behind Billy’s ear, giving it a tender kiss. “But ‘specially like that. I could watch you like that all night. Want to all the time.”

Billy lets out a bark of laughter. It isn’t a nice sort of laugh — it sounds too sardonic, too mean. Steve feels the sting of it, but it’s not enough to bring him down from his sky-high mood.

Still, he frowns when Billy says: _“Gay.”_

It’s stupid, and so _high school,_ and it seems like a moot point, but.

Steve isn’t gay. He’s— bisexual, probably? It’s kind of a new revelation for him, one he’s still getting used to since this whole raging crush on Billy first started (or since Steve realized he _had_ one) a little under a year ago. He isn’t sure where Billy stands on all this. He’d been the one to initiate, though. At least, Steve’s pretty sure he did. And that’s got to mean _something._

Just like it’s got to mean something that Billy hasn’t shoved him away, that instead Billy is taking a long pull at an e-cig he’d dug up from somewhere in the tent.

So Steve really can’t help but go and say something potentially stupid.

“Uh, yeah. I mean. So’s the fact that we just had sex.” He probably sounds nervous — he _is_ a little nervous, even through the fog of pink-tinted pleasantness that is his brain on molly. 

It’s something of a relief when Billy doesn’t say anything, at first. When he just reaches back to hand Steve the e-cig. Steve takes it for his nerves, and to give his mouth something to do other than kissing at Billy’s nape for a few seconds.

“I’ll pass on the pillow talk, princess,” Billy says at length. He doesn’t sound irritated — more like he’s starting to get tired.

Steve kind of wants to push it, to try his luck and see where it takes him. But there’s a deep-seated exhaustion beginning to root itself in his bones, one that has him going a little quiet and lax. The only problem is that his eyes keep popping open, his body still too twitchy and restless to fall asleep.

“You got some more weed or anything?” Steve asks after a moment, squirming a little to try and get comfortable. “I’m twitchy.”

There’s a stretch of silence before Billy snorts, nodding. “Yeah, there’s a blunt in the front pocket of my bag. Some Benadryl in there too. Figured the molly virgin would need it.”

Steve huffs a sigh and rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure that Google said ecstasy is like, a stimulant or something. He’s also pretty sure that, molly virgin or not, stimulants tend to — well. _Stimulate._ But leave it to Billy to pretend like it’s just because Steve is a pussy.

Still, despite that Billy is being his usual dickish self, sitting up and crawling away from him is the hardest thing Steve has done to date. He immediately misses the soft, warm comfort of Billy’s body, rushing to find a packet of Benadryl and choke the pills down with some water. It takes him a minute to find the blunt, but soon he resumes his place by Billy’s side, wrapping himself around him once again with a satisfied sigh.

Another few awkward moments pass where Steve has to find Billy’s shorts and dig around in them for a lighter, followed by some more frustrated squirming and adjusting to get comfortable. It’s worth it once the blunt is finally lit and they start quietly passing it back and forth. Steve’s brain settles more and more with each hit, and he’s kind of thankful for the silence, because he’s not sure he could conjure up words right now even if he wanted to.

Which, he kind of does, because when will he get another chance like this with Billy? But the blunt gets smaller and smaller and Steve still can’t get his mouth to work, so he just leans into it. Lets himself be grateful that they can at least fall asleep tangled up in each other. They don’t finish the blunt before Billy falls asleep, but the Benadryl is kicking and Steve feels warm and cozy and deliriously tired.

So Steve lets the blunt go out, setting it to the side and pulling Billy closer to him, as close as he can get. He falls asleep like that, curled around Billy with his cheek resting against his shoulder, their legs tangled together inside the sleeping bag. Blissfully unaware of what tomorrow will bring.


	3. Chapter 3

When Steve wakes up the next morning, it's to an empty tent and a bad mood that hangs over him like a storm cloud. He feels groggy and achy all over — even his jaw hurts — and the thought of crawling out into the Californian heat for another day of sweaty crowds is just too much. 

He decides instead to roll over and try to fall back asleep, but restlessness gnaws at his gut, and he thinks it might have something to do with the fact that the lumpy pillow smells like Billy's shampoo. Or maybe he’s just hungry.

Eventually, Steve gives up on sleep in favor of either finding wherever Billy ran off to, or something decent to eat. Whichever comes first, really.

It ends up being a tie.

Billy is sitting on the hood of his Camaro when Steve steps out into the late morning sun. He’s looking gorgeous as usual, wearing a more subdued buttoned-down dress shirt and a pair of aviators as he stuffs his face with burrito. Steve’s mouth waters at the sight — of the food, and the sweat glistening all the way down Billy’s tanned chest.

“Get enough beauty sleep?” Billy says in lieu of a greeting, peering at Steve over the rim of his shades. “We went to PTM without you.”

Steve has no idea what _‘PTM’_ is, but he’s kind of afraid to ask and make himself look stupid, so he gestures at Billy’s burrito and asks instead: “Did you get me one?”

Billy laughs at him with his mouth full. “No. Why would I?”

Steve makes a face. Realistically, he shouldn’t have expected anything else from Billy. The guy practically fought him the entire time they fucked whenever Steve tried to show him any sort of kindness. So it really shouldn’t surprise Steve that Billy hasn’t gone out of his way to do something nice for _him._

Still, it kinds of stings.

“Because I’m fucking hungry,” Steve grumbles, trying to pretend like Billy’s actions don’t settle unpleasantly in his gut. 

Billy just shrugs, biting off another large mouthful of his burrito. “Sucks. You snooze, you lose.”

Billy talks around his mouthful of food, just another sight that has Steve’s stomach turning. He props himself up against the hood of the Camaro next to Billy, folding his arms across his chest and glaring out at the crowd scattered about the festival grounds. 

“So,” Steve starts again after a moment, breaking off to chew on his lip. “Last night was—”

“Tame Impala starts soon, we should head over,” Billy cuts him off. He pushes himself off the hood of the Camaro, shoving the remnants of his burrito into Steve’s hands before starting to walk away.

Steve stares after Billy for a moment, bewildered, before scrambling after him. He doesn’t really want to eat Billy’s sloppy leftovers, but his stomach begs him to fill it with _something._ So he chokes down the few remaining bites with a dissatisfied grunt as he walks, unease beginning to unfurl in the pit of his stomach.

Billy doesn't talk to him — not on the walk to the stage, and certainly not once they meet up with Billy's meathead friends. It's not unusual for them, really. It's not like Steve and Billy tend to have much to talk about outside of drugs and parties. But it feels somehow pointed, this time. Like Billy's making an active effort not to engage. Steve doesn't think he's imagining the way Billy avoids so much as _looking_ at him throughout Tame Impala's set. 

And it sucks. It really fucking _sucks,_ because Steve loves this band, but all he can think about is the perpetual lump in his throat and the way his stomach drops every time Billy refuses to glance his way. 

He realizes he's an idiot for thinking last night could be anything more than a casual fling. Everyone knows that Billy’s a player; Steve just figured Billy would at least give him the courtesy of calling it like it is instead of stonewalling him like he's some clingy ex. 

By the time Tame Impala wraps up onstage, Steve is nearly too despondent to notice. His whole body feels heavy with it, his thoughts dulled and listless. It's the most down he's felt in ages, at least since Nancy left him, and the fact that he's _this_ fucking depressed over Billy Hargrove just makes him feel worse. Like, honestly, what did he expect? 

Billy and his entourage are talking among themselves about which band to head to next when Steve decides that maybe staying in bed to mope would feel less lonely than tagging along in silence. 

"I, uh, think I'm gonna go do my own thing for the afternoon," he says, speaking up over the din of the crowd. He doesn't look over at Billy; he figures it'd be better if their cold silence was mutual.

So it's kind of an unpleasant surprise when Billy actually responds. 

"Thought Mac DeMarco was your favorite," he says coolly. 

Steve can’t help the way his head snaps up at Billy’s comment, his eyes narrowing at him. Billy’s words are true, but the fact that he’d spoken them, much less remembered at all, comes as a mild shock.

“Yeah, well. Another day, I guess,” Steve says, trying to give a nonchalant shrug. He turns on his heel, suddenly desperate to get away from Billy’s hard gaze. His heart is thrumming too quickly in his chest, a familiar suffocating feeling rushing through him.

The walk back to the tent is unmemorable. Steve couldn’t describe what he saw on the journey back if his life depended on it. One minute he’s next to Billy in the crowd, and the next he’s roughly unzipping the tent flap, shoving himself inside with a defeated groan.

Steve cradles his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth, trying to will away the melancholy sinking into the pit of his stomach. Trying to abate the pressure in his head, his mind full of images of last night and Billy’s deadpan expression this morning. It’s enough to distract him from the sound of approaching footsteps, and why he doesn’t hear the rustle of the tent flap opening behind him. 

“Moping around isn’t gonna do shit for a molly hangover,” Billy says, his voice so sudden that Steve nearly jumps a foot in the air. “You might as well distract yourself.”

“Uh, okay. Remind me again why you care?”

Billy makes a face. “If I’d known you were gonna be such a little bitch about everything, I would’ve saved my invite for someone else. This isn’t what I invited you here for.”

“Yeah, I know what you invited me here for,” Steve snaps, but the anger inside of him dissipates just as quickly as it had welled up, leaving him feeling empty and tired. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I think I’m just gonna call a cab and get outta here. I'm not feeling up to doing much today.”

“You paid for a full weekend,” Billy points out. His voice is almost completely neutral, but it wavers just so on the word _‘weekend’._ If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounded like disappointment.

Steve just shrugs again, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, well. You said it best yourself: daddy’s credit card takes care of a lot of things.”

He kneels down and starts to pick up some of his belongings that’d gotten strewn about the night before, tossing them into his bag. Billy doesn’t speak for a long moment, nor does he budge. But then he’s giving Steve a dismissive snort, and Steve can see his feet turn away from him out of the corner of his eye.

“Whatever.” Billy doesn’t say much else, just stomps out of the tent like a petulant child. Steve huffs a tired sigh, burying his face in his hands with a pathetic whine of frustration.

So much for making the most of this weekend.

*

Steve didn’t want to come to Tina’s party. He’d made that clear at least a dozen times on his way here, like he figured if he complained enough, Robin would give up on dragging him across campus to the sorority houses. But she’s quite adamant about him getting back on the rebound, and at a certain point Steve figures he might as well just go along with it and save himself the trouble. 

It’s been a couple weeks since the disaster that was Coachella. Steve made the mistake of telling Robin about it one night when he’d had a few too many drinks, and now she won’t stop giving him the sort of advice Steve imagines girls give other girls who have just gotten out of a shitty relationship: _‘He was no good for you’. ‘You deserve better.’ ‘It’s his loss, not yours.’_

Like any of that even helps when all Steve wants to do is forget it ever happened.

But he can’t — or he’s struggling to, anyway — because ever since that weekend Billy won’t so much as look at him. Their morning walks to class stop happening. Billy gives him the cold shoulder any time they run into each other on campus. He still won’t answer the one text Steve sent him when he’d gotten back from the festival, asking if Billy could return to Heather the thigh chains that Steve had accidentally left behind in the tent.

Steve knows when he’s being ignored. He knows how to take a hint. He also knows he shouldn’t be _this_ cut up over Billy Hargrove hitting and quitting it like he’s done with basically every girl he’s ever slept with.

It’s just— It _sucks,_ because Steve thought that maybe they were close enough to friends that Billy would at least want to keep talking to him after.

When Steve arrives at the party, he pours himself a double shot of rum and coke and seeks out the nearest available corner of the living room to nurse it in. He doesn’t want to mingle. He _definitely_ doesn’t want to find some random cute enough girl (or guy) to hook-up with for the sake of distraction. He thinks that might be wrong. Like, hypocritical or something. 

After another two rum and cokes, and a couple shots of whiskey, and a few red plastic Solo cups filled with unidentifiable alcoholic substances, Steve is seriously reconsidering his stance on ‘no hook-ups’.

It’s mostly because he’s bumped into a _particularly_ cute girl — she has curly blonde hair, dimples, bright blue eyes, tight jeans. She’s clearly interested, because she giggles at Steve’s shitty pick-up line and entertains the conversation for longer than thirty seconds while they stand against the wall of a relatively empty hallway. Steve crowds closer than he needs to, puts on his most charming smile, and probably acts a hell of a lot more confident than he has any right to be.

“So, uh, you here with anyone?” he asks, pretending like he’s smooth.

The girl bats her eyelashes, giggling again. She’s all smiles with a finger twirling her hair as she closes the remaining distance, speaking into Steve’s ear. “Would you be disappointed if I said yes?”

“I’d miss those pretty eyes, that’s for sure,” Steve tells her, shrugging one shoulder. His own words make him cringe, but the girl — Bonnie, he thinks she’d said — preens at the compliment, biting her lip.

“Then I guess it’s lucky that the answer is no.”

Steve is just lifting his drink to his lips when she tugs him in by the shirt collar, planting one on him right then and there. He’s startled enough that he drops his drink, the dark liquid splashing all over his shoes and the carpeted floors.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” Bonnie gasps, then huffs a breathless laugh. “Guess we should go get you cleaned up, huh?”

It’s certainly a proposition Steve has no intention of turning down. Because that’s what it is — an invitation to go find someplace a little more private, a little quieter. Someplace they can be alone. Steve just nods, letting her grab his hand and start tugging him gently down the darkened hallway. He’s not exactly clear on how she knows where she’s going, but he figures she’s in whatever sorority this house belongs to.

They stumble down the hallway, bumping into each other with the occasional excited giggle. Steve wants this, he really does. He’s sure of it. Bonnie is cute, sweet, and just his type. She’s also the type that he’s not liable to get attached to. She’s the type that will help Steve forget all the bullshit swirling around in his head for a little while. 

She’s the type that will help him forget Billy Hargrove, even for just a moment.

So, it kind of really sucks when Bonnie turns a corner, Steve in tow, and sends them both stumbling right into the very last person he wants to see right now.

Billy takes a step back in surprise, narrowing his eyes at them in the darkness. He locks eyes with Steve, squinting at him. There’s a flicker of recognition that quickly morphs into something darker, something that almost looks like anger. The look has Steve’s stomach knotting up, and he lets go of Bonnie’s hand like he’s been burned.

“Sorry, we’re just— looking for the bathroom,” Bonnie apologizes, her smile quickly fading when Billy’s glare doesn’t ease up. 

Steve can feel Billy’s eyes rake down his chest, the intensity of it burning. When they reach the stain on Steve’s otherwise perfectly clean khakis, Billy’s gaze suddenly jumps back up again. He still looks pissed. Maybe even slightly more pissed, now.

If Steve wasn’t feeling drunk and particularly stupid, that might have given him pause. Instead, he’s puffing out his chest and stepping closer like he thinks he could take Billy in a fight again. Despite that the first (and only) time they’ve really scrapped back in high school, Billy gave him a concussion and a busted face that took weeks to fully heal.

“You got a problem with that, Billy?” Steve says. He injects as much venom into the question as he can, even though his words are a little slurred and his balance is a little off. 

At first, Billy just stares back.

Then, out of nowhere, he grabs Steve by the front of his shirt and yanks him forward. 

Drunk and uncoordinated as he is, Steve nearly goes pitching face-first into the carpet. It’s all he can do to grab at Billy’s arm and steady himself, at which point Billy is already hauling him down the corridor.

“I’ll take care of him,” Billy calls out to Bonnie, who Steve assumes must be watching the scene in perplexment. She doesn’t come to his rescue, at any rate. Not that Steve blames her.

There’s a bathroom at the end of the hallway. Billy shoves Steve past the threshold, then slams the door behind them. Steve has to catch himself on the counter to keep from falling on his ass.

He’s seething. Absolutely _seething._ This is the first time Billy has acknowledged him in weeks, and he has the fucking _nerve_ to step in at the exact moment Steve is about to move on — or, at least, distract himself for an evening. 

Steve’s already gearing up to throw a pot shot at him when Billy clicks the lock on the door and crowds him up against the sink.

“You know Bonnie’s fucked the entire football team, right?” Billy says. He’s got one hand on the counter beside Steve, and he’s leaning close enough that Steve can smell the liquor on his breath. 

“You know I don’t _give a fuck,_ right?” Steve spits. He’s riled up enough to get his adrenaline pumping, and it has him shoving Billy backwards by his shoulders before he can think twice about it. “God, you’re such a fucking _dick_ sometimes.”

Billy’s upper lip curls, giving him a dangerous edge. He’d stumbled back against the door in response to Steve’s shove, and he pushes himself off of it with what sounds almost like a snarl. “I’m not the one trying to wet my dick with some loose pussy two seconds after— fuck it, you were there. Until you decided to screw off to fuck knows where.”

 _“Two seconds?”_ Steve laughs, his voice raising an octave. “You didn’t fucking _want_ me there, you made that obvious. Was I supposed to just sit there and let you treat me like shit? Am I supposed to just wait around for you to come to your senses and treat me like a human fucking being?”

“Quit acting like I kicked your goddamn dog, Harrington. Pardon me for not being Mr. Fucking Sunshine after a long night,” Billy says, incredulous. “You didn’t even give me a chance.”

The way Billy’s voice wavers slightly would normally stop Steve right in his tracks. But he’s too hurt, too worked up, to stop himself from barreling on. _“I_ didn’t give _you_ a chance? Are you kidding me? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. And that didn’t start after I left; you shut me out _while we were fucking._ Do you seriously not get that?”

“The fuck are you talking about? I gave you what you wanted,” Billy snaps. “Everything went exactly how you wanted it to. You must be really fuckin’ spoiled if that wasn’t enough for you.”

“Don’t,” Steve cautions, gritting his teeth. “Don’t act like you just rolled over and gave in. You— I wanted to make it good for you. I just wanted you to feel _good.”_

Something in Billy’s expression softens, and Steve sags against the counter. His drunkenness has taken a turn toward exhaustion, and he just wants this night to be over. Billy takes a step forward, his demeanor shifting rapidly. 

“You felt good, too,” Billy says, his voice pitched low. It’s a rapid shift from his previous anger, and it leaves Steve feeling off-kilter. Billy crowds into his space, pinning him to the counter with his body. “Forget this shit. Fuck Bonnie. We can just feel good again, like before.”

The close proximity of Billy’s body has Steve’s heart thumping in his chest. For a moment, he’s mesmerized, wondering if Billy’s mouth would feel just as soft as it did the first time. But it takes just one glance at Billy’s glassy eyes, one whiff of the liquor on his breath, for Steve to push him away.

“Jesus Christ, Billy. We’re not doing this again. You’re just—” Steve starts, then pauses when Billy’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You’re just drunk.”

Billy moves in again, leaning into Steve’s space despite the hands Steve has on both his shoulders. His efforts to keep a buffer of distance between them are obviously in vain, because soon enough Billy is pressed flush against Steve’s chest. 

“So’re you,” he says. His breath is warm where it puffs against Steve’s jaw. 

He’s right. _Damn him,_ he’s right. But that doesn’t matter, because this shouldn’t — _can’t —_ happen again.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about you since Coachella,” Billy’s voice rumbles against Steve’s pulse point. The heat and vibrations from it throb through him like a second heartbeat. Steve can already feel himself getting hard — stupid, traitorous dick. 

“You know, you’re the first person I’ve let fuck me like that,” Billy whispers. His voice is pitched low, his lips just-barely brushing against Steve’s ear. Steve shivers. “That make it more special for you, baby? Knowing you were my first?”

It kind of sounds like Billy is trying to mock him, but there’s something else there, too. Something raw. Something Billy is trying to keep down.

Or maybe he’s just drunk and acting erratically.

“You— what the fuck did you drink, man?” Steve deflects, huffing out an unconvincing laugh. 

Billy falters, the shutters closing over his expression. He takes a step back, giving Steve a measured look. “Same shit as you. Forget it, I’m gonna go smoke.”

 _“Wait!”_ Steve cries, pushing himself forward and grabbing Billy’s wrist before he can turn the doorknob. “Was I— was I really the first, for you? Like that, I mean?”

“You…” Billy trails off, his face screwing up. His expression is sour, like he’s just bitten directly into a lemon. “You’re the only one who’s, um. Who’s ever fuckin’ taken care of me, or what the fuck ever.”

Steve’s heart gives a little kick, his cheeks flushing. He relinquishes his grip on Billy’s wrist, instead choosing to grab Billy’s hand and lace their fingers together. 

“I mean, you deserve that. To be taken care of,” Steve says, his voice soft. Then, he’s giving Billy a cheeky smile, squeezing his hand before he speaks again. “Or _what the fuck ever.”_

“Alright, alright, Jesus. That wasn’t an invitation to start acting like a sap,” Billy groans, rolling his eyes. But there’s a small smile playing on his lips, and he hasn’t smacked Steve’s hand away. Instead, Steve feels Billy’s grip tighten a little, before he’s getting tugged closer, Billy slotting their hips together.

Pressed up against Billy like this, Steve can tell that he’s not the only one still sporting a half-chub. He can tell the moment Billy realizes this, too; the small smile on Billy’s lips widens into something more wicked than sweet.

“So,” Billy says. One of his hands slides down to Steve’s ass, giving it a shameless squeeze. “You still wanna go find Bonnie?”

 _Bonnie_ is about the furthest thing from Steve’s mind at the moment. He’s not about to tell Billy that, because Billy doesn’t need the ego boost, but Steve also isn't about to leave after— Well.

After _whatever_ this counts as. It feels like some kind of reconciliation. Steve doesn't think it can be classified as an apology, anyway; he's pretty sure Billy Hargrove isn't the apologetic type. Still, they've established that Coachella was just a misunderstanding. Or something like that. 

Steve isn't sure what that means going forward. He's almost too drunk to ask, especially when Billy starts rocking up against him and brushing his lips against Steve's jaw, like he's making an active effort to distract him from his thoughts.

So it's something of an achievement when Steve finally manages to speak.

"I don't— I don't want this to end like it did last time," he blurts. His words seem to give Billy pause, because he stops grinding their hips together. "I don't want you to go all cold on me after."

Billy is quiet for a couple seconds, like he's considering Steve's words or weighing his answer.

"Alright," he says. Billy hasn't pulled away from Steve's jaw, so his words are pitched low, practically whispered against Steve's ear. "We can _stay friends._ Whatever you want, baby.”

Steve freezes, the movement of his hips grinding to a halt. “Friends? Is that— ?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Billy interrupts, shushing him. 

There’s more that Steve wants to say, more questions he wants to ask. But when Billy seals their lips together and resumes the slow grind of his hips, any remaining coherent thoughts fly right out of Steve’s head.

Kissing Billy is just as heady as it was the first time. Only now, Billy lifts Steve up with ease and plops him down on the counter, wriggling in between Steve’s legs before moving back in. Steve kisses him until his head spins, wrapping his arms around Billy’s shoulders and tugging him in closer. 

It isn’t long before Steve’s whole body is flushed, his fingers knotted in Billy’s curls as he kisses him with mounting desperation. Billy’s palm is working over the bulge in his jeans, relieving some of the pressure, and it’s good, it’s so good, but. 

Steve needs _more._

He whines into Billy’s mouth before pulling back. Steve takes a shuddering breath, head spinning from the tingling of his lips and the warmth of the alcohol coursing through him. Billy leans back in, nipping along Steve’s jaw for a moment until Steve pushes him back. The expectant look that Steve gets in response has him flushing down to his toes.

“I want you to fuck me,” Steve finally blurts, hands flying up to hide his face — but not fast enough to miss the way Billy’s eyebrows practically hit his hairline. 

“What was that, princess?” 

Steve doesn’t need to see Billy’s face to know that he’s grinning. In fact, it’s better that he _doesn’t_ see that. He’s nervous enough as it is. But, like, he’s also been thinking about this for _weeks._ Since Coachella. Since before Coachella. Since he realized he had a crush on Billy and had bisexuality matter-of-factly explained to him by Robin.

Steve lets out a shaky sigh. “Don’t make me say it again.”

He feels Billy’s hands clamp around his wrists, and despite his best efforts to resist, Billy easily wrestles Steve’s arms down. They’re face-to-face again. Steve’s surprised to see that Billy isn’t smirking, that he looks more intrigued than smug.

“How much have you had to drink?” Billy asks. He’s still got both eyebrows raised. Almost like he’s doubting Steve’s sincerity, or something.

“I’m drunk,” Steve admits. He fidgets against Billy’s grip and squirms on the counter, feeling uncomfortably caught under that scrutinizing stare. “But I’m not _that_ drunk. I want this. I— I thought about it. Before, I mean.”

Billy stares a few seconds longer, as though trying to parse whether or not he believes Steve. 

And then Billy is surging forward, kissing Steve hard on the mouth, fisting a hand in his hair, pulling him in. It’s a little rough, a little mean. Billy likes using his teeth — not that Steve minds.

When they part again, Billy’s grin is wide and toothy.

“You ever taken cock before, Steve?” 

Steve’s cheeks get hot, and he bites his lip. Because no, he hasn’t. Before Billy, all he’d ever truly done was drunkenly kiss a few guys at parties here and there. But the thought of Billy fucking into him, hot and hard and heavy, gets his pulse racing. It has every time Steve has thought about it over the last few weeks. 

“No,” Steve finally answers, his hands sliding down Billy’s back until they reach his ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re my first, um. First anything, really. With a guy.”

Billy’s eyes darken. He leans in to nip at Steve’s bottom lip. “Well, don’t I just feel special.”

 _You are,_ Steve wants to say. But Billy is already kissing him again, hard enough to bruise, though it’s slower now, almost languid. He takes his time working Steve’s mouth open, tugging him in by his thighs until they’re plastered together. Billy’s palm works over the hard line of Steve’s cock through his khakis, leaving Steve panting into his mouth. 

Their kisses lose any real rhythm, and Steve’s head is spinning when Billy breaks away. Steve watches with heavily-lidded eyes as Billy works on the buttons of his shirt. He doesn’t slip it free from Steve’s shoulders, instead moving to slide down the length of Steve’s body. Billy nips along the expanse of exposed skin as he goes, paying particular attention to the line of dark hair that dips below Steve’s waistline.

“Want me to suck your cock, baby?” Billy asks when he’s at eye-level with Steve’s crotch, looking up at him through his lashes. His hands have come to rest at Steve’s hips, and Steve can feel the blunt tips of Billy’s fingernails dig into the soft flesh.

Steve’s hips stutter a bit, a guttural moan spilling from his lips. “Yeah, _yes._ Fuck, I want—”

“Yeah?” Billy murmurs when Steve falters. It would be sweet, but Billy’s fingers are still digging into Steve’s hips and he has a glint in his eye that can only mean he has no intention of letting Steve leave here until he’s _wrecked._ “Think I’ll suck you off, princess. Let you cum in my mouth before I flip you over and make you watch me fuck you until you’re hard again.”

It’s said so casually, like Billy’s just reading off his order at a restaurant. But his words have Steve groaning, loud and wanton, his legs spreading wider in invitation.

Billy chuckles in response. His face presses up against Steve's groin, breath coming out in hot puffs that sink into the denim of Steve's jeans. He desperately wants to rut himself against Billy's mouth, to chase any scrap of friction he can get. But just because Steve's drunk doesn't mean he's completely lost his pride, so he stands strong. Or, he tries to. There's no helping the groan that shakes out of him, or the way one of his hands shoots down to grab a fistful of Billy's hair.

Billy seems to be taking his time down there; he mouths at the outline of Steve's cock, sucking at the obvious bulge where it strains against his jeans until the fabric is damp and Steve's breathing is harsh and heavy.

"Shit, baby. Don't tell me you're already dripping," Billy murmurs, peering up at Steve with a smug smirk pulling at his lips. Steve huffs and tilts his head upward, as though staring at the ceiling vent is better than watching Billy work open his zipper with his teeth.

It kind of is, at least in the sense that taking his eyes off Billy means Steve can try to steady his breathing, because he's pretty sure a stiff breeze would threaten to make him pop off at this point.

It's just— It's been so long. He's wanted this for _so long._ And Billy's never shown any interest. Not until Coachella. Even that had been fleeting, more like a fever dream than something that had really happened.

Steve hopes tonight won’t be more of the same.

Billy works his jeans from his hips until they’re pooling around Steve’s ankles and he’s left stripped down to his briefs. His cock is leaking a wet spot against the fabric, and Steve is acutely aware of it, of the throb of pleasure that snakes through his guts every time he feels Billy's breath and body heat against his skin. 

A harsh squeeze at his thighs makes Steve jump and let out an involuntary hiss. He glances down at Billy, who glowers back up at him like Steve's done something to personally offend him. 

" _Look_ at me.” Billy says. It sounds like an order, the kind Steve isn’t sure he wants to ignore because he isn’t sure what Billy will do if he doesn’t listen. So, he holds eye contact. Watches, tense and panting, as Billy slides his briefs down until Steve’s cock springs free.

When Billy’s mouth sinks down on his cock, Steve’s breath catches in his throat. Not only from the feeling of the wet heat, but also from how pretty Billy’s lips look stretched around him. Billy sucks him slow and deep, one hand still fastened on Steve’s hip. His nails dig in, sending sparks of pleasure-pain rocketing down Steve’s spine.

Steve has a white-knuckle grip on the countertop and his head falls back, thumping against the mirror behind him when Billy’s throat flutters around the head of his cock. Steve jumps in surprise when Billy’s hand connects with the exposed flesh of his ass before he sits back on his heels.

“I _said,”_ Billy starts, his eyes narrowed as he gazes up at Steve, _“look_ at me.”

Steve’s hands tremble where they’re gripping the counter, his hips twitching from the loss of contact. “I’m— sorry. I’m trying.”

Billy doesn’t say anything for a long moment, choosing instead to fix Steve with a hard stare. Then he’s standing up, pushing his way into Steve’s space with a dissatisfied grunt. He crowds Steve against the mirror before rucking Steve’s shirt up his chest. Billy doesn’t give Steve time to fully remove it, just slaps Steve’s hands away and dips down to fasten his lips over one of his nipples.

Steve arches into the touch, a half-choked moan spilling from his lips as his hands grapple for purchase. They eventually find Billy’s shoulders, holding on tight while Billy works his mouth over the hardened bud. It’s not gentle — Billy licks and sucks and bites like it’s a punishment, leaving Steve tender and sore when he pulls away. A bruise is already forming over the abused flesh, dark and nasty and _pretty._

“Consider that a warning,” Billy says before yanking Steve in for a rough kiss. It’s quick and mean. Billy’s lips are shiny with saliva when he breaks away. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Sorry,” Steve pants, his cock leaking and begging for attention. 

Billy’s aggression would normally leave Steve with a sour taste in his mouth, but it’s different this time around. Because although Billy is still being _Billy,_ he has this look in his eye, like Steve is something precious. Or maybe Steve is just really fucking horny. Either way, Billy’s gaze makes him feel warm and, surprisingly enough, _safe._

The throbbing of Steve’s cock is finally abated when Billy takes him back in his mouth, relief rolling through him in waves. Steve doesn’t let his eyes drift this time; he watches Billy intently, taking in the sight of Billy’s blue eyes gazing up at him through his lashes while he works Steve over.

He’s good at this, Steve thinks. Almost like he’s well-practiced. Steve doesn’t really want to think about it; he doesn’t want to think about whether or not Billy’s been sleeping around with other guys since the festival. He’d rather focus on the way Billy swallows him down until Steve can feel his cock nudge the back of Billy’s throat, until he can feel it convulse around a gag that Billy manages to suppress. He’d rather focus on the way Billy pulls back only to spit into his palm, then takes Steve into his mouth again and hollows his cheeks and works the rest of Steve’s cock with his fist.

Steve practically collapses against the sink. His knees already feel weak, and if not for the way Billy’s free hand is pinning his hips up against the countertop, Steve would be struggling to stand.

It’s enough of a struggle just keeping his damn eyes open. He knows he _has_ to; Billy is staring up at him, gaze burning. There’s this determined spark to his pretty blue eyes that makes it hard to look away, and the intensity of it is making Steve’s stomach flip and his dick throb in Billy’s capable mouth.

 _Fuck._ He’s going to end up popping off from this. He’s too drunk and turned on _not_ to.

“Billy—” Steve gasps. His hand jumps to Billy’s hair, tangling up in his curls just enough to give Billy a gentle tug. “Gonna make me cum.”

Billy rolls his eyes as if to say, _‘that’s the point, idiot’,_ and doesn’t hesitate to start bobbing his head faster. Steve chokes on a moan, his hips stuttering upward. He forces his eyes to stay open — Steve isn’t about to miss the sight of Billy swallowing his cum for _anything._

A moment later, Steve’s orgasm hits him like a truck. He cums in thick spurts down Billy’s throat, yanking on the curls tangled up in his fists. Steve writhes under Billy’s unrelenting grip, gasping out Billy’s name into the quiet of the bathroom. The party rages on just on the other side of the door, but given their current situation, neither of them are paying any attention to it.

The aftershocks leave Steve shaking when Billy pulls away. He sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth on the backside of his hand with a satisfied smirk. Steve is still twitching when Billy grabs his thighs, using them to pull himself upright. Then he’s kissing Steve, slow and dirty. Steve can still taste himself on Billy’s tongue, and his spent dick manages to give an interested twitch even with his thighs still trembling.

“That was…” Steve trails off when Billy moves to mouth at his neck, his head still spinning. “You’re really fucking good at that.”

“I know,” Billy says, flashing a toothy grin. “I’m really good at a lot of things.”

Steve doesn’t miss the way Billy’s hands squeeze his ass, and he whines at the thought of Billy fucking into him. He’s wanted it for a long time, but tonight it’s almost unbearable. Steve isn’t sure he can even make it through the preparation — he just wants to feel Billy stuff him up so full that he pops. 

“So’re you gonna fuck me, or what?” Steve pants, rocking against Billy as he sucks at the soft skin below Steve’s ear. 

The question vaguely reminds Steve of Billy’s own words that fateful night at Coachella, but Steve kind of gets why Billy had been so insistent on getting on with the fucking. He’s all but aching for the feeling of Billy inside of him, his cock already attempting to stiffen again. 

Billy chuckles against his throat. The vibration of it sends a shiver running down Steve’s spine and has him tempted to get a hand between his thighs. He knows he should wait, that he’s going to be too sensitive, but Billy works Steve up so easily that it’s driving him a little crazy.

“So impatient,” Billy murmurs, still mouthing at Steve’s neck. He’s sucking a hickey above the collar. Steve thinks he should probably tell him to stop, but the sting of it feels _so good._

“Thought you said you were a virgin? Sure ain't acting like one, princess."

Steve could turn that back around on Billy. He could mention how insistent Billy had been that Steve rough him up rather than take his time. He realizes that might be hypocritical of him, though — telling Billy to be less gentle, urging him to hurry up.

So, Steve says instead: "You _want_ me to act like one?"

Billy snorts. His teeth catch on Steve's earlobe again and dig in hard enough to make Steve's stomach jump and his breath escape him in a hiss.

 _"Nah,"_ Billy says with a grin.

Then, he's grabbing Steve by the hips and flipping him around so he's facing the bathroom mirror. The sudden shift and the press of Billy up against his back has Steve grabbing at the sink to keep from pitching forward, because Billy doesn't hesitate, doesn't give him a moment to catch his balance; he's biting at the nape of Steve's neck and palming roughly at his ass.

"Must be some Vaseline in here somewhere," Billy says, peering at Steve through the mirror with hooded eyes and a sly smirk. "Better start lookin'. Don't think you could take me dry for your first time."

“Maybe if you—” Steve starts, then falters, his face flushing. ‘ _Maybe if you ate me out’_ is what Steve really wants to say. The words, however, get stuck in his throat.

“What was that, princess?” Billy asks cheekily. He has this look, like he knows exactly what was about to spill from Steve’s lips. “Maybe if I… ?”

Steve’s blush dips below his shirt collar. He busies himself with digging through drawers and cabinets, looking for some lube in lieu of answering Billy’s question. It’s not like Steve should be embarrassed to say anything to Billy at this point — they’ve had their dicks in each other’s mouths, for fuck’s sake. But right now, the words feel just a little too intimate, too vulnerable, to be said out loud.

There’s a jar of Vaseline in one of the cabinets beneath the sink. Steve snatches it up, about to turn around to pass it to Billy when he’s pushed up against the counter, ass jutted out towards Billy. Steve can see the startled look he has in his eyes from his reflection in the mirror, and how big his eyes get when he feels Billy spread his cheeks.

“This what you wanted, baby?” Billy croons before licking a slow, lazy stripe over Steve’s hole. “Want me to fuck you open with my tongue first?”

All Steve can do is nod, stuttering out a moan when Billy delves back inside, wasting no time in opening Steve up with determined strokes of his tongue. The jar of Vaseline in Steve’s hand goes clattering to the floor, forgotten completely. All Steve can process is the velvety slide of Billy’s tongue inside of him, his eyes rolling back into his head.

It’s good. It’s _so good,_ enough so that Steve doesn’t even hear Billy grab the Vaseline from the floor. He doesn’t notice Billy slicking up his fingers, or the jar being discarded on the bathmat next to the tub. There’s not much that Steve notices, not with Billy’s tongue in his ass, until he feels Billy’s index finger start to press inside alongside it. It’s slick and foreign, but the feeling is complemented nicely by Billy moving to suck on the rim of his hole.

“Billy, _fuck,”_ Steve pants, watching himself in the mirror with dark eyes.

Billy chuckles and pulls away just long enough to lick a strip up Steve’s crack. “That’s the idea.” 

Billy pushes his finger in to the first knuckle, flicking his tongue along with it. The combined sensation has Steve arching his back and letting out another broken-sounding groan. The stretch is a little weird, but it doesn't exactly hurt — it mostly just feels intimate in a way Steve wasn't anticipating. Sure, he’s stuck a finger up his own ass once or twice before, but it was never really anything special, never really _did_ anything for him. 

But when Billy starts slowly pumping his finger, and presses the tip of a second inside, and laps at the stretched rim of Steve's hole, it quickly starts to build up to something shockingly _good._

Steve pants into the mirror. It's fogging up a little already. His knees still feel on the verge of buckling, so he has to lean his weight forward and clutch at the bathroom counter. Billy’s managed to work two fingers into him. The stretch is starting to burn, but Billy is taking it slow, taking his time in a way that suggests he’s actually being patient for once. 

Billy pumps his hand at a careful pace, and spreads his fingers gradually, and when he starts to curl and twist them every time they're buried deep, Steve feels the first stirring of pleasure. It's a twinge in his gut that takes him by surprise. Steve groans and stares, bleary-eyed, at his flushed reflection in the mirror.

"Starting to feel good, baby?" Billy murmurs against the base of Steve's spine. He fucks his fingers into Steve a little faster, curls them a little deeper. "Think you can take one more?" 

Steve wriggles his hips, testing the waters. He feels loose enough that he could manage a third, so he nods his affirmation. “Yeah, yes. _Fuck,_ please.”

Billy rises to his feet as he starts to work in a third, and Steve can see him grinning, smug and satisfied, in the reflection of the mirror. The drag of Billy’s three fingers inside his ass burns just-so, and it’s a tight fit given the thickness of them. But Steve is turned on enough that he can’t help but push back onto Billy’s hand, every nerve feeling like a livewire.

“You sound pretty when you beg,” Billy murmurs into his ear, draping himself over Steve’s back. The new position has Billy’s fingers sliding it at a different angle, pressing even deeper than before. 

There’s a moment where the only sound is the slick slide of Billy’s fingers inside of Steve, and their joined breathing mingled with breathy moans. When Billy’s hand moves to wrap delicately around Steve’s neck, applying firm but careful pressure, Steve jerks a little in surprise before releasing a throaty groan that echoes throughout the bathroom.

Billy grins again, spreading and curling his fingers until Steve’s hole loosens up. He looks like he’s enjoying the sight of Steve basically riding his fingers. Steve is damn sure Billy is thrilled by how often Steve is moaning his name, too, and by the way he’s clutching the countertop like it’s his lifeline.

“Look at you, all open and desperate for it. You want my cock, baby?” Billy asks, his tone just on the side of mocking. Billy’s hand squeezes Steve’s throat, working his fingers over that sweet spot inside him as he gradually restricts Steve’s airflow.

Steve feels like he might explode, or pass out, or a combination of both. His dick is hard and aching, leaking a mess onto the bottom hem of his shirt and the bathroom counter. Steve is dangling on the edge again, balls drawing tight in warning. Just as he’s about to fly over, Billy releases his throat, quickly squeezing the base of Steve’s cock to abate his impending orgasm.

“Not yet, princess,” Billy chuckles, low and smooth. “You’re still gonna take my cock tonight.”

Steve closes his eyes just long enough to suck in a breath and steady himself against the counter. He knows it's useless, that the second Billy starts railing into him he’s gonna be a weak-kneed mess. 

"Ye-yeah," Steve stammers. His eyes open, heavy and half-lidded as he watches Billy watch him through the mirror. The intensity with which Billy stares at him, the hungry glint in those pretty baby blues, has Steve shuddering. He feels drunk. He _is_ drunk, but, like, it feels as though Billy has finger-fucked him even further out of his mind. That must be why he says it: "C'mon. Fuck me."

For a split-second, Billy's eyes bug out. He looks surprised, and then _smug,_ and then he's pressing himself flush against Steve's back, biting at his nape and the juncture of his throat and shoulder. His hands slide up Steve’s stomach, roving over his chest with rough, calloused palms. Steve likes the manhandling. He's surprised how much he does, at how quickly Billy gets him moaning when he starts scraping Steve's skin with blunt fingernails and pinching at his nipples.

When Billy pulls away again, it's to get the jar of Vaseline from the bathroom floor. Steve watches him slick himself up, feeling jittery and restless for every second that passes without Billy's hands all over him.

Then Billy crowds up against Steve's back again. The heat of him already has Steve's head spinning and his heart rabbit-thumping in his chest.

"Ready for me, baby?" Billy kisses at Steve's throat and drags his tongue across his earlobe. Steve lets out a shivery breath at the feeling. He nearly jumps when he feels Billy's cock slide up and down his crack, slick and hot.

Steve can't bring himself to speak. He feels mute, too busy holding his breath. So he just gives a stiff nod and clutches tighter at the sink.

"Relax," Billy says. His voice is like honey, warm and thick. Steve feels compelled to listen to him, even as the blunt head of Billy's cock pushes against his hole. It's thicker than his three fingers had been; the ache and pressure have Steve holding his breath.

Billy hisses. His face is half-buried against the side of Steve's throat as he slowly teases the head in. 

_"Shit._ You're so fucking tight."

The words send a shock of pleasure cascading down Steve’s spine. He’s momentarily rendered speechless as Billy begins to slowly guide himself inside. It’s a hell of a stretch, even with the preparation, and it takes Steve’s breath away like a punch to the gut. He digs his nails into the countertop as he hangs on, sweat beading on his forehead.

“I said _relax,”_ Billy repeats, but he doesn’t sound annoyed, necessarily. It’s more of an encouraging demand, and it’s accompanied by the flat of Billy’s palm coming to rest at the base of Steve’s spine. Billy’s hand holds him steady as he bottoms out, a shuddering groan spilling from his lips. 

Steve forces his muscles to unclench, taking a steadying breath through his nose. Even with the intensity of the pressure, Billy’s cock still sends little jolts of pleasure sparking through Steve, and he chooses to focus on that instead of the burn. For a moment, Billy doesn’t move, scratching his nails along Steve’s lower back while he lets Steve adjust. 

“You good?” Billy asks. It sounds strained, like it’s taking all of his willpower to not start fucking into Steve with reckless abandon.

“Yeah,” Steve pants; the word sounds breathless and strained even to his own ears. “Just gimme a second.”

Billy doesn’t give a response. In the reflection of the mirror, Steve can see him looking down at where his cock is nestled snug in Steve’s ass, blue eyes dark with want. He’s still scratching amorphous patterns onto Steve’s skin, hips starting to rock minutely. 

When the head of Billy’s cock drags against something that has Steve’s toes curling, Steve’s eyes fly open as he gasps: “Jesus fucking— I’m— _Move.”_

Billy catches Steve’s eyes in the mirror, smirking in satisfaction. “Your wish is my command.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say, Steve thinks, but then Billy starts to move, and any useful, coherent thought is lost. There’s still a slight burn as Billy starts to slide out of him, his cock nearly springing free before he surges forward, pushing back in slowly. It’s a delicious friction, a combination of pleasure mixed with the faintest twinge of pain, and Steve can’t help the incoherent babble that starts up almost immediately. 

“Fuck— _fuck_ , s’good.”

Steve leans more heavily onto his arms. His entire body sags forward as Billy starts sawing into him at a slow but relentless rhythm, his fingers digging into Steve’s hips to help to keep him rooted in place. It’s overwhelming — the ache of it, the spasm of pleasure Steve feels in his gut every time Billy fucks into him. When Billy starts snapping his hips in faster, so that every thrust is accompanied by a sharp slap of skin-on-skin, Steve can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and reach down to wrap a hand around his cock.

“What’d I say?” Billy hisses against Steve’s ear. There’s a pressure against Steve’s throat, and fingers pressing up under his jaw to tilt his chin up. Steve groans and blinks his eyes open.

Billy is staring back at him through the mirror. He’s got this look in his eyes, something dark and feral that has Steve’s heart nervously thrumming and his dick twitching in his hand.

“I told you to _watch,_ didn’t I?” 

Billy’s hand squeezes just enough to make Steve’s throat feel tight. He swallows hard at the pressure and feels his head swim at the thrill of it, at the heat that washes over him when he keeps making eye contact with Billy through the mirror. It’s easier to stare at Billy’s reflection than his own — in fact, it’s kind of fucking embarrassing looking at himself right now. Steve tries not to let his eyes catch on his reflection for too long. He doesn’t need to see the way he’s flushed and panting and has this distant, fucked-out look on his face as Billy pounds into him. It’s almost _too_ intimate.

But Billy seems to have other ideas.

“Fuck, baby, look at yourself,” he purrs. His breath tickles Steve’s ear and sends shivers coalescing down his spine. “You’re already dripping again. You like getting fucked, baby? You like it when I split you open on my cock?”

Steve emits a weak, desperate moan, and Billy’s fingers tighten in response. It’s a warning and Steve knows it — he knows damn well Billy would be petty enough to pull out and leave him there if he doesn’t get a verbal response. 

“Yes,” Steve says, his face going from pink to deep red as he watches himself while Billy pounds into him. “Like it when you— when you fill me up.”

Hearing those words fall from his lips should leave Steve feeling mortified. Instead, his cock manages to stiffen even more while his hole spasms around the length of Billy buried inside of him. 

“Good boy,” Billy croons, and Steve can feel the acidic burn of embarrassment start to simmer in his gut. But the feeling gets pushed to the back of his mind, because Billy is picking up the pace again, his hips slapping against the soft flesh of Steve’s ass with determined thrusts.

Steve can’t help the way he pushes back to meet the snap of Billy’s hips, giving Billy more access to slide in deeper. Billy groans in response, his eyes still locked with Steve’s as he fucks him to near-incoherence.

Billy keeps one hand grasping at Steve’s hip, moving the other to wrap around Steve’s neglected dick. The moment Billy gets a warm palm wrapped around him, Steve’s whole body spasms, back bowing and his lips forming a sinful _‘o’._ He’s babbling out a series of broken words, a nonsensical mixture of _Billy_ and _fuck_ and _‘s so good, baby._

Steve likes to think that he knows how most things feel, that he knows what feels good to him and what feels not so good. But if anyone had asked Steve if he knew what it’d feel like to have Billy fucking into him with a hand working over his cock, Steve never would’ve thought it’d feel like this. Sure, he isn’t stupid. He knew this would probably feel pleasant. He’d banked on it, even. Steve didn’t, however, anticipate this feeling almost as overwhelming and electrifying as fucking Billy on molly had felt. 

“‘M close,” Steve whines, his muscles clenching. “Can I— _fuck._ Can I cum?”

Steve doesn’t know why he asked. It’s not like Billy had said Steve couldn’t cum without his permission — the thought didn’t even occur to him until right this very moment. But Billy looks gut-punched and wrecked at Steve’s words, his hips stuttering a bit in surprise. Then his expression morphs into something feral, something _pleased._ Like a predator that knows it has its prey in sight, cornered with nowhere to run.

Billy releases Steve’s dick from his grip, shifting forward until his lips brush the shell of Steve’s ear. “Yeah? Think you can cum from just my cock, baby? Think you can do that for me?”

“I… ” Steve trails off, his breath hitching when Billy gives a particularly harsh thrust. He doesn’t know if he can or not, he’s never tried. Steve could lie, say no and make things easy, but that doesn’t feel right. Instead, he goes for honesty. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

Billy hums in response, brushing some of Steve’s sweat-matted hair from his forehead before moving his hand to wrap around Steve’s throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make Steve gasp. “Well, how ‘bout we test it out, princess?”

Steve doesn’t think he’d be able to say no to that if he wanted to. It’s not like Billy gives him the opportunity — he’s already bracing one arm against the sink and starting to pound in Steve’s ass with reckless abandon, with his palm still digging into Steve’s windpipe hard enough to make his head spin.

“Shit, baby, you feel so good. Tighter than any bitch I’ve ever fucked.”

It’s statements like that that Steve thinks he should be annoyed by, but when Billy follows them up with a change in the angle of his thrusts and starts peppering kisses all along Steve’s jaw, it’s hard to stay mad about it. 

Besides, it feels good. Like— good in a _‘this is revelatory’_ kind of way. Good in a _‘this is going to be jerk off material for the next several weeks’_ kind of way.

Steve’s fucked. In more ways than one.

“Fits like a fucking glove,” Billy hisses. His hand gives a little squeeze, just enough to make Steve gasp when he loosens his hold again. “Feels like you were meant for this. For _me.”_

Steve wants to say something to the effect of _‘shut the hell up’,_ but the words get caught in his throat, and all he manages to get out is a rasping moan. The truly fucked up part is, all of the nasty shit Billy keeps spewing is making Steve’s dick throb. He feels high from it. He’s keyed up and oversensitive, like he’s rolling all over again. 

So it shouldn’t come as such a shock when Billy’s hips shift just-so, and suddenly every single time he fucks in, Steve’s field of vision whites out with stars and his breath escapes him in shallow pants. His arms threaten to give out. So do his legs. Billy’s practically holding Steve up by this point, and he’s so fucking _relentless,_ with the choking and the biting and the constant stream of filth he’s hissing directly into Steve’s ear.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Cum for me.”

Steve’s on the edge of his orgasm, Billy’s cock still slamming home at a ruthless pace, hitting something inside of Steve that steals the breath right out of his lungs. His dick feels like it’s bound to explode, the pressure mounting.

“I’m gonna— I’m gonna— ” Steve can’t find the rest of his words, writhing under Billy’s touch.

Billy just yanks Steve upright by his hair, a move that sends a jolt of near-ecstasy running through Steve. There’s one arm looped around Steve’s waist, keeping him steady as Billy fucks into him, and one hand on Steve’s jaw, forcing him to watch himself get fucked in the reflection of the mirror.

“C’mon, princess, watch yourself cum,” Billy orders, his voice low and gravelly but still sweet like honey. “Tell me what you see, baby.”

Steve’s mouth works, no sound coming out at first. Then, Billy finds that spot again at the new angle, and Steve’s pretty sure the entire house can hear his moan, even with the music thumping. “Y-You. I see— I see you. Filling me up, making me… making me _… fuck,_ I can’t— ”

Steve doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence, losing all sense as he tips over the edge. It starts slow at first, a low pulse that warms him from the inside out. Then, Steve cums with a shout, his untouched cock leaking a few pathetic spurts onto the countertop. Billy fucks him through it, not even slowing down to let Steve catch his breath, locking his hand around Steve’s throat and grunting in his ear.

“That’s it, baby, look at you,” Billy growls, squeezing Steve’s neck with firm pressure. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum on my cock. Bet you haven’t had a cunt make you cum like this before, huh? ‘Cause you’re a slut for this, aren’t you? Being stretched out and filled up, fucked like a bitch in heat.”

“Billy, fuck, I’m gonna— shit, you’re gonna make me cum again,” Steve pants, his legs shaking so hard he’s worried he might collapse even with Billy holding him up. 

“Tell me,” Billy demands, finally wrapping a hand around Steve’s dick, jerking him off rough and quick as he fucks into him. “Tell me what you see right now, princess — _who_ you see giving it to you better than anyone else ever will.”

Steve can barely get the words out. He nearly gives up, because every time Billy’s hips snap against his ass he feels like his breath is being knocked from his lungs and he’s so close to popping off for a _third fucking time_ that Steve’s pretty sure he’s about to pass out.

Or maybe Billy’s hand is just squeezing his throat a little too tightly. 

“F- _fuuck,”_ Steve groans through his teeth. His eyelids droop, but when Billy’s palm tightens around his windpipe they instinctively snap open again. He stares, dazed, at the sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Billy is staring back at him. He’s got this wild look in his eyes, something feral and hungry that makes Steve’s skin crawl and his cock twinge in Billy’s fist. He’s watching Steve watch him, intent and unblinking.

And then there’s Steve — hunched over the sink, panting, flushed pink, face screwed up whenever he tries to concentrate on breathing or speaking. His dick is an angry purplish red where Billy is still viciously pumping it in his hand, and his hair is sticking to his sweat-slick forehead. He looks like a hot mess. Like Billy’s fucked the last of his brain cells out of him.

He probably has. It must be why all Steve can think to do is whatever Billy tells him to.

“I see— I see you,” Steve manages to get the words out despite how hard he’s panting, despite the pressure of Billy’s hand against his throat. 

“You see me, _what?”_ Billy growls, following his words up with a sharp snap of his hips, twisting the hand that’s wrapped around Steve’s cock at the same time. That wild look in his eye has only become more pronounced, like he’s desperate for Steve to keep the flow of words spilling from his lips.

Steve groans, though it’s more of a gasping sound with Billy’s hand still flexing around his throat. “You, it’s you. Just you. Fucking— _fuck._ Fucking me better than anyone else ever has. In— in my whole life.”

And that’s all it takes for Billy to cum with a low, guttural moan, spilling warm and wet inside of Steve. Billy’s hips twitch through the aftershocks, thrusting shallowly into Steve a few more times before finally coming to a stop. 

Their mingled breathing is the only sound that fills the room. Steve fully collapses across the countertop, forehead resting against the cool marble as he tries to steady his breathing. It’s something of a relief when Billy lets go of his oversensitive dick and slowly pulls out of him, his hands twitching where they rest at Steve’s hips. The feeling of cum beginning to slowly drip out of him has Steve’s nose wrinkling.

“Gross,” Steve mumbles, but he still has this dopey, sated look on his face when he catches Billy’s eyes in the mirror. 

“Didn’t hear you complaining,” Billy quips with a roll of his eyes, smacking Steve’s ass hard enough to make him yelp. 

But then Billy’s yanking a towel off the rack above the toilet, cleaning Steve up with gentle touches and it’s almost _tender,_ enough so that Steve is dizzy with it. Steve hums his approval, letting Billy tend to the mess without complaint.

It isn’t until after a few beats of silence have passed that the fog clears in Steve’s brain and he sits up fast enough to have Billy taking half a step back in surprise. 

“Wait, fuck,” Steve says, wincing. “We didn’t— we forgot to use a condom.”

Billy pauses for a moment, then shrugs. The expression on his face is a little too nonchalant. “It’s whatever.”

“No, it’s— Jesus, Billy, it’s not _whatever,”_ Steve groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s _important.”_

“Look,” Billy starts, then falters as he zips up his jeans. He leans against the wall behind him, folding his arms across his chest, before meeting Steve’s eyes in the mirror. “I’m clean, got tested before Coachella. ‘S not like I’ve been fucking around with anyone since then. Unlike some people.”

There’s a distinct undercurrent of heat in the jab, but Steve can’t be bothered to pay attention to it. Not when Billy has all but said he hasn’t fucked anyone since Steve. 

“Wait, you— you haven’t?” Steve asks, his eyes wide.

Billy shrugs. He looks like he’s trying to play it off cool, but Steve could swear he looks a little bashful. Which is _weird —_ since when is Billy Hargrove anything less than shameless?

Steve turns around to face him directly, squinting at his face to try and get a better read on him. It has the unintended effect of putting Billy on the defense, judging by the way he folds his arms across his chest.

“ _What?_ Is it that hard to believe?” Billy doesn’t wait for Steve to answer; he bends down to hike his pants and briefs back on and drops eye contact in favor of fastening his belt. “I fucked around a lot in first year and the reputation stuck, okay? I don’t do that shit anymore.”

There’s a brief pause. When Billy speaks again, his voice is quiet and his gaze remains averted.

“‘Specially not when I’m interested in someone.”

Steve nearly pitches forward in surprise, steadying himself at the last second. He fixes Billy with a wide-eyed stare, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Steve isn’t entirely sure what to say — nothing seems to fit, and he doesn’t want to scare Billy off. Not when he’s just gotten confirmation of the one thing he’s been desperately wanting to hear for what feels like _forever._

“Me?” is what Steve settles on, wincing at the asininity of his own question. Because, like, _who the fuck else?_

Billy’s irritation is almost palpable, the exaggerated roll of his eyes a mere reinforcement of it. “No, the good-looking guy to your left.”

“Sorry, I just…” Steve trails off, scratching his head. “You like me? As in _like-_ like me?”

“Fucking hell,” Billy groans, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation. He scrubs both hands over his face, sighing. “We back in elementary school or some shit?”

Steve rocks back on his heels, his heart hammering in his chest. “I just... I’m not sure what you want me to say? I don’t— um. I don’t want to get it wrong.”

Billy has this look on his face, one that almost screams _‘you could never be wrong’._ But it’s gone in a split-second, replaced with that feigned nonchalance once again. “Don’t gotta say shit, ‘s not why I said it. Look, we can talk about it in the morning, yeah? When you’re not totally sauced.”

“In the morning?” Steve repeats slowly, and he feels like he’s severely lacking in brain cells at the moment. But, to be fair, Billy _has_ just turned his world entirely upside down. “Like, you want to get coffee or something?”

“I was thinking more like you could crash at my place,” Billy suggests. And it’s there again — that blasé look that’s anything _but_ blasé. 

Steve nods once. Twice. He feels like he's in a daze, like maybe he's drunker than he realized or he's cum one too many times and now nothing makes sense.

Because it really _doesn’t_ make any sense; Steve only came to this party in the first place to forget his stupid unrequited feelings for Billy. Now they’re low-key talking about feelings in the bathroom they just hooked up in. It’s not at all how Steve imagined this evening going. 

Not that he’s complaining, it just kind of feels like he’s dreaming. Steve’s half-tempted to try pinching himself.

“I— Okay. Yeah,” Steve says, because he realizes he’s never actually verbalized an answer to Billy’s offer. “Your place. I, uh, I’d like that. Do you wanna go there _now,_ or…?”

Billy’s eyes rake pointedly down Steve’s chest to where his dick is still softening between his thighs. There’s a subtle uptick to his mouth — something like amusement — when he glances up at Steve again.

“Whenever you’re ready, pretty boy,” he purrs. “But you might wanna put your pants back on first.”

Steve flushes down to his chest, scrambling to yank his underwear and khakis back on. When he’s tucked away and zipped up, Billy holds the door to the bathroom open for him, not-so-subtly grazing Steve’s ass with his hand as he ushers him out the door.

“Are you driving?” Steve asks hesitantly. He knows he’s drunk, but he’s pretty sure Billy is at least a _little_ trashed, too.

Steve turns to see Billy shaking his head, his phone already in his hand. “‘M calling us an Uber, pretty boy. C’mon, it’ll be here in five.”

Billy nudges Steve to get him moving again. Steve stumbles down the hallway, his mind racing in a million different directions. He’s about to get into an Uber with Billy. He’s about to go to Billy’s apartment. He’s about to _sleep in Billy’s bed._ And Steve is pretty damn sure that Billy’s just making split-second drunk decisions that he’ll ultimately regret in the morning. But that’s ultimately the factor that quells the majority of Steve’s anxiety — morning is a long way away.

Steve can put off worrying about the catastrophic mess he’s making until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We decided to split up the final chapter into two -- chapter 4 should wrap this all up in a neat, fluffy little bow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! First off: Sorry for the long wait. We've both been really busy with life and couldn't get this tied off with a neat bow until this week. Hopefully the wait was worth it! We're sad to close this fic off; it's been such a joy collaborating together and ending things is always kind of bittersweet. 
> 
> As always, if you like it, please let us know in the comments. And come hit us up on our respective tumblrs ([obsceme](https://hartigays.tumblr.com/) & [nastea](https://tea-otter.tumblr.com/))!

The first slivers of sunlight that filter through the window have Steve groaning and twisting away from the offending brightness. There’s a resistance, however, and he slowly pieces together that there’s someone wrapped around him. 

Memories of the previous evening’s events come rushing back all at once. Steve is awake and alert in an instant, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s in Billy Hargrove’s bed, with Billy Hargrove himself wrapped around him like a vise. Billy is still snoring softly, spooning Steve with his face buried in Steve’s neck.

They’d stumbled into Billy’s apartment around three in the morning, still violently drunk off their asses. The Uber ride had only served to make them both hyper-aware of how fucked up they were, but rather than make a big deal about it, they’d leaned into it. They’d even smoked a blunt and had a few cigarettes, talking aimlessly and shooting the shit, before collapsing into Billy’s bed in a tangled heap. 

At the time, Billy’s sudden proclivity for clinging to Steve like a koala hadn’t even registered in Steve’s mind. He’d just giggled and let Billy manhandle him into whatever position he’d desired, falling asleep to the sound of Billy’s even breathing and the ticking clock above the bed. And Billy hadn’t exactly been _gentle;_ he’d tugged and groped and pulled at Steve until he found a position that suited him, _but._

Billy was still the cuddliest fucker Steve has ever encountered, and that in and of itself is enough to leave his head spinning. It’s a lot to process, and Steve is _really_ starting to miss the safety in being obliterated drunk.

He doesn't try to squirm away, though. It's not that Steve _minds_ getting to snuggle up with Billy. Hell, despite the fact that one of his legs has fallen asleep and his neck is in an awkward position, he kind of loves it. 

Steve also just doesn't want to wake Billy up. He has this niggling fear that sober Billy will retract everything he'd said last night, that he'll wake up and kick Steve out of bed and their conversation in the bathroom will have been like a dream. 

Steve's not ready to face that possibility. 

So he doesn't move; he spends the next several minutes staring up at the ceiling and listening to Billy's slow breathing. It's calming, and at the same time terrifying, because Steve doesn't know how much longer this comfortable peace will last. 

When Billy first starts to shuffle and his breathing turns shallow, Steve tenses, bracing himself for the moment that Billy finally comes to.

It takes him by surprise when, after a long stretch of quiet, Billy presses his lips to the side of his throat and mouths languidly at the skin just under Steve’s ear.

It’s not accompanied by anything else. Billy doesn’t start groping at him. He doesn’t say a word. He’s just lazily kissing at Steve’s neck like he doesn’t think Steve’s fully awake yet.

But Steve’s _wide_ awake, now.

He briefly considers the merits of laying there and pretending like he isn’t, just to see how far Billy plans on taking this. But Billy’s breath and stubble keep tickling at his neck, and before long, Steve is huffing out an involuntary laugh as Billy continues snuffling along his jaw.

“Hey,” he whispers. It feels weird breaking the near-silence of Billy’s bedroom. Steve braces himself for the worst.

Instead, all he gets in response is a muffled: _“Hey.”_

Steve wilts a little. It’s not a ‘get the fuck out of my bed’, at least, and Billy hasn’t stopped kissing his throat. Steve reaches up to tentatively brush his fingers back through Billy’s tangled curls.

“So, uh, how hungover are you?”

Billy snorts softly, nosing along Steve’s throat and tightening the arm he has slung over Steve’s middle. “Just enough to make staying in bed all day sound like a dream come true.”

Steve goes a little rigid. He knows Billy can feel it. Steve clears his throat awkwardly, moving to pull away. “I can, uh… I can head out, if you want.”

There’s a brief pause. Steve holds his breath, afraid of what Billy’s answer will be. He steels himself for the possibility that this could soon be a distant memory. 

Instead, Billy pulls Steve flush against him, tangling their legs together and burying his face in Steve’s hair, breathing in with a contented sigh. “You trying to run out on me so soon, pretty boy?”

“No, of course not— I just— I didn’t think—” Steve stumbles over his words, tongue-tied in his disbelief.

“Thought I could make you breakfast,” Billy cuts him off, humming softly. “You like French toast?”

Steve twists in Billy’s embrace, just enough to where he can look at him directly. He searches Billy’s face for a moment before reaching up a hand and resting it on Billy’s cheek. Steve’s heart stutters a little when Billy leans into the touch, almost as if on instinct.

“I love French toast.” Steve tucks his arm back under the covers, burrowing into Billy’s warmth with a small sigh. “I just… I thought you’d want me to leave.”

“Nah,” Billy says. He tucks his face back into the space between Steve’s shoulder and neck. “‘Sides, you haven’t even seen the shower yet. Be a shame if you left before getting to take it for a spin.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, elbowing Billy gently. “That’d be nothing short of a tragedy.”

It falls silent again. They spend another few moments dozing before Billy makes the first move to get up, uncurling himself from around Steve and stretching quietly. He slips out of bed a moment later, and Steve can hear the distant sound of Billy turning on the faucet in his en-suite bathroom.

Steve is still reeling from the revelation that Billy actually wants him to _stay._ And Billy hadn’t only put the offer of cooking Steve breakfast on the table, he’d also offered to sleep with Steve. _Again._

Either this is all some sort of fucked-up fever dream, or Steve is really, truly, and honestly experiencing the beginning of something _more_ with Billy. Steve actually does pinch himself this time, almost giddy when he blinks an eye open and sees that he’s still in Billy’s bed, under Billy’s blankets, listening to the sound of Billy brushing his teeth a few short paces away.

When Billy finally re-emerges from the bathroom, he’s wearing nothing but his boxers but looks like he’s styled his hair enough to tame most of his bedhead. He’s staring back at Steve from the threshold to his bedroom, leaning up against the doorframe with his arms loosely crossed in front of his bare chest.

“You want me to bring you breakfast in bed, princess?” Billy asks him. The nickname doesn’t sound condescending, for once. Maybe Steve’s brain is still waking up, but he could swear that Billy sounds just a _little_ fond. “Or are you gonna join me in the kitchen?”

Steve briefly weighs his options. He wonders if Billy would actually bring him his breakfast. It doesn’t strike him as the sort of kind gesture Billy would ever be caught dead doing, especially considering the last time they shared a breakfast Billy only grudgingly gave Steve the last of his burrito.

Besides, Steve feels a lot more awake now that he’s had a good eyeful of Billy standing there half-naked. 

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Steve decides, stretching a little but making no move to get up. “Do you have mouthwash or something?”

“There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet above the toilet,” Billy says as he walks to the door, pausing to look over his shoulder. “It’s new, hasn’t been used.”

Steve sits up at that, tilting his head to the side. “You have a spare toothbrush? Any particular reason why?”

“They came in a pack of two, don’t let it go to your head,” Billy snorts, rolling his eyes. He slips out the door, disappearing down the hall.

The entire time Steve is freshening up, using the bathroom and brushing his teeth, he can’t keep the stupid smile off of his face.

When he finally waltzes into the kitchen, welcomed by the scent of Billy’s cooking, Steve is still smiling. Billy glances at Steve when he walks in, giving him a small half-smile in return. He’s standing at the stove, cooking what smells like sausage sausage while two steaming cups of coffee sit on the counter next to him.

Billy gestures to one of the cups, and Steve accepts it gratefully. The first sip is like taking a drink of water after being stranded in the desert. Steve is momentarily stunned by Billy’s ability to somehow make his coffee exactly how he likes it without even having to ask, but then again, Billy has a tendency to be good at pretty much everything.

“Smells good,” Steve comments, peering over Billy’s shoulder. “Didn’t know you liked cooking.”

“I like anything I’m good at,” Billy says smugly. “It’s almost ready. The French toast should only take a few minutes.”

Steve smiles around his mug, taking another long sip of his coffee. He leaves Billy to his cooking, moving to look around Billy’s apartment. He’d seen it the previous night, but he’d been so trashed that he has limited recollection of what the place looks like.

It’s quaint but cozy. Billy has an eye for decorating — another one of his surprising qualities. The furniture in the living room doesn’t match, but it somehow all goes together perfectly. There are movie posters and tapestries covering the walls and string lights lining the living room and the kitchen. 

The place is far cleaner than Steve would’ve anticipated as well, though there are ashtrays filled with joint tips and beer bottles scattered around the room. Billy has a startling amount of bookshelves, all of them filled with books that look like they’ve been well-loved over the years. Steve pulls a few off the shelves, smiling softly at the worn covers and dog-eared pages.

“Holy shit,” Steve comments as his eyes trail over one particular bookshelf. “You have like, every Stephen King book ever written.”

Billy’s voice carries to him from the nearby kitchen.

“Yeah. I’ve been reading him since I was like, ten.”

Steve is pretty sure that’s an exaggeration — when _he_ was ten, he distinctly remembers playing Nerf guns with Tommy, not reading books. Hell, most of his childhood reading collection consisted of those illustrated encyclopedias about wars and dinosaurs. But judging by the number of books Billy owns, he seems like the avid reader type, so what does Steve know?

His eyes rove over to the next bookshelf. He might not be much of a reader, but he recognizes some of the titles and authors. 

“You read a lot of Jane Austen,” Steve remarks. He says it casually like he’s just noting the weather, but he can’t help the hint of glee that seeps into his voice. “And… is that Nicholas Sparks?”

There’s a pause from the kitchen. Steve hears Billy put down his coffee mug a little too harshly.

“Some of those were for lit classes,” he says.

Steve could drop it there; he can tell Billy’s starting to get embarrassed, but he can’t help himself.

“I mean, you’ve got at least a shelf full of romance novels,” he says.

“They’re classics.” 

Billy sounds defensive. He also sounds a lot closer, and when Steve turns around, he sees Billy leaning in the doorframe to the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and his arms folded across his chest. “What would you know, anyway? Do you even read?”

Steve shrugs. Now it’s his turn to feel a bit defensive. “Sometimes.”

“Twitter and text messages don’t count, pretty boy,” Billy says snidely, a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. Before Steve can protest, he adds: “French toast is ready. Quit poking through my shit and come eat.”

Billy’s kitchen table is quaint, but the seats are comfortable. He has some of those cushions that tie onto the chairs, and there’s a pot leaf tablecloth that makes Steve crack a small smile. Steve sits quietly, waiting for Billy to plate their food.

“You do know you have all the Twilight books, right?” Steve asks when Billy walks over with the food, mostly just to annoy Billy, but also because he truly can’t stop thinking about Billy curled up with _New Moon,_ sniffling into his blankets.

Billy cuts Steve a glare as he sets his plate down in front of him. “Really? That’s what you’re dying to talk to me about? My interest in fucking _Twilight?”_

Steve swallows, his smile fading. He stares down at the food on his plate, pushing it around as his appetite quickly abandons him. “No, I guess not.”

Probably sensing the return of Steve’s anxiety, Billy just gives an easygoing shrug. “‘S not a big deal. We don’t have to talk about anything, if you don’t wanna. Better eat, though. Didn’t spend all that fuckin’ time cooking for your prissy ass for nothing.”

“I want to,” Steve says quickly. “Talk, I mean.”

Steve wants to just get this conversation over with, like ripping off a bandaid. Either Billy is actually into him, and wants him around permanently, or he’s just dicking around and wasting Steve’s time. If it’s the latter, Steve can’t help but think that Billy is a damn good actor.

Taking a bite of his French toast, Steve gets distracted, letting out an involuntary moan at the first taste, because fuck it if it isn’t the best French toast he’s ever had in his entire life. “Shit, this is good.”

“Told you,” Billy tells him. He’s smug once again, looking mighty satisfied with himself. “Chef in the making.”

They eat in silence for a stretch, Steve savoring his food and Billy practically demolishing his in two minutes flat. But there are too many things weighing on Steve’s mind for him to stay quiet for long. He has too many questions in need of answers. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Billy blinks at Steve, staring for a long moment before putting down his fork. “Yeah, shoot.”

“If you… _like_ me,” Steve starts, choosing his words carefully, “why were you such a dick after we— um. After we hooked up? At Coachella, I mean.”

Billy’s expression is hard to read. At first, Steve could swear he sees annoyance pass across his features — it’s in the way Billy’s jaw clenches and his brow furrows. And yet, the way he suddenly breaks eye contact to glance down at his empty plate looks almost sheepish. It’s coupled with a stretch of uneasy silence that leaves Steve wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have broached this subject at all.

Eventually, Billy shrugs one shoulder and drops his knife and fork on his plate. It’s their clattering that first breaks the silence.

“I dunno,” Billy says. He’s standing up and taking his empty plate with him. Steve gets the feeling it’s an excuse for Billy to turn his back. “It was mostly the molly hangover putting me in a shitty mood.”

Steve may not be an expert on reading Billy Hargrove — is anyone, really? — but that answer screams _‘bullshit’_ to him.There’s obviously more to it than that, otherwise Billy wouldn’t be acting so evasive.

“ _Mostly?_ ” Steve presses. He wonders if maybe this is a bad idea, if prodding an already agitated Billy for an answer is going to blow up in his face. 

At the same time, he can’t stand the thought of just brushing this aside. Steve needs to know, especially if he and Billy are going to have some kind of... _thing._

Billy lets out a frustrated sigh. He’s at the sink, his back to Steve as he rinses off his plate under the faucet.

“Yeah. _Mostly.”_ There’s a beat of silence. Steve watches as Billy’s shoulders tense with every passing second. 

When Billy sets the plate on the drying rack and spins around to face him again, he looks less annoyed than he does uncomfortable.

“I didn’t think _you_ would be into anything more than a hook-up, alright? I didn’t even think you liked me. It’s not like I’m nice to you.”

Billy crosses his arms and keeps talking, albeit quieter now.

“I figured it’d be easier if I acted like it was some meaningless one night thing.”

Steve blinks. Blinks again. And again. His brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, because _what the fuck?_ Billy liked him _before_ they ever hooked up? It’s a simple concept, and yet Steve’s brain feels like it can’t comprehend it, his mind racing.

“You liked me? Before we hooked up?” Steve asks, his lips still parted in shock. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Like I literally _just_ said,” Billy sighs, sounding irritated. “I didn’t think you liked me. Not enough to want anything to do with me beyond a hookup, at least. Wasn’t sure I even wanted to do that, ‘cause I didn’t want to scare you off. Contrary to popular belief, I enjoy having _some_ friends.”

“Look, I… I get it. I’ll be the first to admit, I didn’t really let myself believe that I liked you. Until everything happened, anyway,” Steve says. “But I realized it pretty damn quick after Coachella.”

Billy nods, looking a little distant. Like he's lost in his thoughts, processing Steve’s words.

“But I _do_ like you. I figured that out once Robin said I was being an idiot for not understanding why I was so bent out of shape about everything that happened,” Steve continues.

Billy snorts, finally meeting Steve’s eyes again. He’s smirking, just a little bit, shaking his head. “Guess we’re both idiots, then. You more than me, obviously, but we’ve known that for a while.”

It’s a joke, and Steve knows it’s a joke because Billy’s smiling even if it’s with a bit too much teeth, but he flips Billy off anyway. “Ha ha. You’re hilarious. Add comedian to your list of future careers.”

“Hilarious enough for you to let me take you out Friday?” Billy asks, and he’s back to looking uncomfortable. Like he feels out of place, unsure of himself in a way that Steve has never seen before.

“Like, on a date?” Steve asks. His heart rate picks up, palms sweating. “Yeah, I think— um, yes. I’d like that. A lot.”

“Good, it wasn’t really optional. I was just trying to be polite,” Billy tells him, giving Steve a wink. “And wear those khakis you wore last night. The view was nice.”

Steve faux-swoons, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a romantic. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

It’s supposed to be sarcastic, but Steve can’t help how the words sound incredibly genuine. Because he really does feel that way — like he won the lottery. Billy likes him. Like, _really_ likes him. And that in and of itself is kind of an incredible feat.

"Sure are, baby,” Billy says with a smirk. For once, his smugness isn’t insufferable. Steve is too giddy for anything to bring him down. His mouth is starting to hurt from all the smiling.

“You calling me your baby now?” Steve says, mostly teasing. _Mostly._ But also, they haven’t explicitly spelled out what they are, and as much as Steve doesn’t wanna get greedy and push this too far, he wants to know. He wants Billy to tell him.

He doesn’t expect him to, is the thing. So it comes as a surprise when Billy answers:

“Depends. Does this mean you wanna be mine?”

It sounds equal parts snide and serious. Steve is pretty sure the question isn’t rhetorical. So Steve turns it over in his head — the idea of _belonging_ to Billy. It’s primitive, it’s possessive, and it’s par for the course for someone like Billy Hargrove. Sharing is caring, but that’s not exactly in Billy’s nature. Possessiveness and selfishness, on the other hand, are crucial components of Billy’s personality. 

_But,_ it just so happens that Steve can also be as selfish as they come when he really wants something. Billy kind of lucked out in that respect.

The idea of being Billy’s, and Billy being _his,_ is an idea Steve likes very much. Maybe a little too much. Regardless, it doesn’t stop the swell of excitement that rises up in Steve’s chest when he thinks about everyone knowing once and for all that Billy owns his ass in every way imaginable, and Steve owns Billy’s right back.

“Yes,” Steve says easily, then takes a bite of French toast, pretending like his heart isn’t nearly beating out of his chest. “I wanna be yours.”

Billy looks like he’s trying to keep his expression nonchalant, but Steve can see right through it. He’s pretty sure their expressions actually mirror each other’s at this point: feigned nonchalance with an undercurrent of relief and joy that threatens to spread and burn them both up from the inside out. 

“Guess it’s settled then,” Billy says, working to keep the grin from spreading across his face. “We’re together. Or dating? Whatever. Point is, you’re mine for keeps.”

Steve lets Billy’s words simmer beneath his skin, warming him up from the inside out. He and Billy are dating. Billy is Steve’s _boyfriend._ Like, for _real —_ not just in some wild fantasy Steve conjured up from the smattering of memories he’s collected with Billy over the years.

“So. You have a crush on me,” Steve says after a stretch of comfortable silence. “You _like-_ like me. That’s so gay, babe.”

Billy snorts, and it’s far too late when Steve sees the powdered sugar sitting just within Billy’s reach. Because in a split-second, Steve’s face is met with a fistfull of white powder. Just like his freshman year of college all over again.

Steve splutters indignantly, but he can’t help the shocked giggle that spills from his lips. “I tell you I’m gay for you and you assault me with sugar? That’s like, a hate crime or something.”

“Actually, if I recall, you claimed that I’m gay for _you,”_ Billy says, smirking at Steve’s current predicament. “So, it’s justifiable assault.”

“But you _are_ gay for me,” Steve points out. He uses his napkin to scrub the sugar from his face, then gives an incredulous laugh. _“Justifiable assault._ Is that even a thing?”

Billy rolls his eyes, grabbing a fistful of Steve’s shirt collar, tugging him in close. “Yeah. Maybe. Who gives a shit?”

Steve barely waits for Billy to finish talking before he makes the final move, sealing their lips together. 

This kiss feels different than the others they’ve shared. It feels weighted with newfound curiosity, and possibility, and — if Steve wants to be really corny about it — _hope._

He sighs into the kiss, trying to scoot his chair closer to Billy’s. He struggles for a moment before giving up and breaking the kiss so he can slide out of his seat. Billy looks mildly confused, right up until Steve climbs into his lap and ducks in for another kiss. Billy just melts into it, running his fingers through Steve’s hair with a contented hum.

“So,” Steve says when they break the kiss, curling his hands into the hair at the nape of Billy’s neck. “Were you team Edward or team Jacob?”

Steve isn’t surprised when he goes crashing to the floor after Billy rudely shoves him off his lap. 

“I hate you,” Billy groans.

“Nah. You love me,” Steve says with a grin. He pushes himself off the ground and plops back into Billy’s lap, crowding into his space. “Aw, c’mon babe. You _l-o-o-o-ve_ me.”

Billy folds his arms across his chest, stubbornly setting his jaw. “I’m starting to think I should’ve kicked you out of bed last night.”

Steve slings his arms around Billy’s neck again, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Billy’s jaw, grinning at the way Billy softens immediately beneath his touch.

“Yeah, well. You don’t have to say it.”

Billy keeps his expression stoic for a few beats before letting the façade fall. He takes Steve by surprise, scooping him up and barreling towards his room, dumping Steve right onto the center of bed. Steve falls rather ungracefully, but he doesn’t take the time to ruminate on it. Instead, he’s all hands, scrambling to pull Billy’s shirt from his body while simultaneously trying to extricate himself from his own pants.

They fall together in a messy pile of limbs, exploring each other with impatient hands as the afternoon stretches on. The rest of the day is spent in bed, touching and learning each other in ways they never truly imagined they’d be able to.

Like most things they’ve share together, their _getting together_ story is more of a journey. Though, in all fairness, it would’ve been rather unlike them for it to have gone any other way. The important thing is, they’ve found their own little slice of heaven in each other, in their own fucked up, messy sort of way. And now it’s just Steve and Billy together, against the world.

As it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave your love in the comments, or come hit us up on our respective tumblrs ([nastea](https://tea-otter.tumblr.com) and [obsceme](https://hartigays.tumblr.com)!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Too Good, Too High, Too Tight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249885) by [wrecked_fuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrecked_fuse/pseuds/wrecked_fuse)




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